Imagine a world where anybody could construct their own, personal, nuclear weapons, as often and as many and as big as they liked. That’s what this spell was. It could be taught in half an hour, cast in a few minutes—a few seconds, if you were in a hurry—and potentially destroy the world.
Not just kill everyone on it, mind you.
Destroy
it. Leave an asteroid belt where a planet once swung along its orbit.
I didn’t dream this. I
nightmared
this.
I’m very pleased that the mountain has a heart; truly, I am. I want it to live!
And now I plan to hide the mountain’s heart, keep it a secret, and seal it off so that no one ever finds out about it. We’ll find some other way to illuminate the corridors. We’ll make candles out of
dazhu
fat. We’ll use torches and oil lamps by their thousands if that’s the way it has to be. But the heart of the mountain is officially a State Secret as of eighty-seven years ago. This scares me about as much as the idea of turning people into vampires and letting them loose on the world.
I got the impression that the mountain was very forthcoming with me, but also very nervous. It didn’t like showing me its naked heart, and that made me feel both very privileged and moderately safer. If it was barely willing to show me, it would never show anyone else—and I made it a point to mention this to the mountain the moment I finished fleeing that chamber.
It sealed all the doors behind me as I went back up. The doors just started merging with the rock of the walls. I knew the mountain was closing the tunnel, as well, shrinking it down to nothing, burying its heart in a mile or more of granite.
That isn’t deep enough, but I guess it will have to do.
Wait. Is there anything deep enough? The world is flat. It’s a plate. If the mountain suffers a heartbreak, will the world shatter like… well, like a dropped plate?
I invented exactly the right word: I
nightmared
this. Now I know how Oppie felt at Trinity.
It still didn’t solve my illumination problem, though. Aside from raw, magic-turns-to-light spells, I’ve got nothing. There’s a magician-refined light spell that’s very good at making light, but I wonder how much magic it uses. Using thousands, maybe tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of them worries me a little, but I’m not sure why.
Still, it’s the best we’ve got. I think I’m going to go with the idea of several major light spells—variations on my line-of-light-along-the-ceiling trick. With those providing the major illumination in corridors and other public areas, we can then add some point-sources to brighten intersections and larger chambers. Maybe a few dormant light spells that only activate if it gets dark… emergency lighting? Hmm.
Cities are more complicated than I thought. They’re really machines for living in, not just collections of buildings. This is going to take some planning and work—make that “more planning and work.” All this, I apparently managed in my sleep. Now I’m awake and the puzzle I assembled in my sleep has some issues that need to be addressed.
Well, I wasn’t at my sharpest.
I’m working on it. At night, I walk through the mountain, learning more about its layout and finding my way around. What corridors need constant lighting? Which ones are more business-hours-only things?
Tort spoke with her wizards—well, my wizards. Mochara’s wizards. The wizards she helped to train—about it. She’s taught them the best lighting spell she knows, of course, but an actual enchantment is something they don’t do all that much. Now they’re practicing their enchanting skills and we’re gradually building up a stock of various objects that will shine brightly in the dark. Oil lamps, seashells, colored pebbles, one sleep mask—it might be a blindfold; either way, I suspect whoever did that one has a sense of humor—and other miscellaneous doodads we can mount in hallway niches.
I haven’t seen Thomen since I overheard the argument. I don’t know if he’s still running the guild of wizards or if Tort has taken charge of it. I’m tempted to find out, but I also don’t feel right about sticking my nose into their personal affairs. I’m supposed to be the King and keep the good of the kingdom in mind. A major player like a wizards’ guildmaster isn’t someone I can ignore, especially when he has feelings for the kingdom’s chief magician. I can rationalize it easily, but I really don’t want to.
I’m just not cut out for the Kinging business.
On a lighter note—ha, ha—we’ve confirmed that we can, in fact, make a diamond grow. Tort is, I think, legitimately impressed. I get the feeling she sometimes pretends to be more impressed or amused or whatever, just to please me, but not this time. I gave her a diamond the size of the first joint of her little finger, and she seemed impressed. I’m pleased.
It isn’t fast with the experimental spells I’m using, but it works. I’ve played with it and have a dozen slightly different techniques; those are running now. I’ll see which ones are working the fastest in another week or so. When I have a winner, I plan to enchant a box and put it on a shelf in a chimney. The smoke will provide carbon, the heat will provide binding energy, and the spell itself will catalyze crystal growth. At least, that’s how I think it works. It seems to.
This makes me wonder. Starting with a seed crystal, I can grow a diamond. If I had other examples, could I grow, say, carbon nanotubes? I don’t have any to copy, but if I can grow them, can I make carbon fiber armor? It would be a lot lighter and could be even tougher than the stuff we’re using. I don’t have details on the structure of that sort of material, but I guess I could lay out different patterns and try to grow some, see which ones stand up under stress… kind of like making molecular building blocks, I suppose.
That’s another reason to go home, at least briefly. I need reference manuals; I teach computer science and elementary physics, not chemistry and metallurgy! What alloys do I need for better swords? How do I make these alloys? Do we have to do it with magical forges, or do I just need advanced tools? By the way, how well does modern body armor stand up against medieval weapons? Are the police using knife-proof full-body armor? How about sports players? Is there martial arts armor made from modern materials that would actually stand up to sharp threats?
Speaking of threats…
In the evenings, Tort hosts us to dinner; that is, my knights, Kelvin, and I. It’s turned into a sort of informal cabinet meeting. Tort tells us about the magical goings-on, Kelvin reports on the progress of the trainees, and my personal guard individually report on their progress. It’s an almost-formal occasion. Tort dresses up for it, which made me feel that I ought to, which convinced everyone that it was required.
I’m wondering if I can alter the fashions of Karvalen just by wearing different clothes. If I started wearing a top hat, would everyone else take it as a fashion statement? I don’t really want to find out.
Dinnertime also gives me a chance to stick in my two cents about what I expect from knights. I’m drawing heavily on the Boy Scouts, King Arthur, and Virgil Samms. Torvil, Kammen, and Seldar listen intently and try to understand. Kelvin tends more to ponder what I’ve said and consider how to encourage the correct line of thinking in everyone else.
Kelvin is a leader. I’d nominate him for King if I thought I could get away with it.
Anyway, Kelvin was talking about getting a horse killed out from under himself when a wizardly type did something to it during a raid or invasion or whatever by one of the coastal cities.
“You know,” I said, “everyone in Mochara is a sort-of wizard.”
“True, Sire. But that’s no help to the horse.”
I munched on something—I forget what—and considered that.
(As an aside, I bit my tongue rather frequently, at first. On the plus side, my teeth make shredding something I’m chewing very easy. I don’t have to chew nearly as much as I used to, which, statistically, should lower my chance of biting my tongue. On the other hand, sharp teeth. Biting my tongue is still painful and extremely annoying. I try not to talk with my mouth full, and not just for reasons of etiquette.)
“It should be,” I mused. “Can you deflect or disrupt a spell coming at you?”
“I can,” Seldar offered. The rest shook their heads. Tort didn’t bother to answer that.
“Maybe we need a new practice drill,” I offered. “Tort, is there something relatively simple for defensive purposes? Not just our usual blocking spell, but something that will work on, say, something that’s trying to freeze my heart?” Happened once; that’s why it sprang to mind.
“Their defensive block will already do that,” she pointed out. “It is a simplified version of Daeron’s Shield. We could call it ‘Karvalen’s Parry,’ if you like. The difficulty is in remaining alert to the magical forces so one can see the attack coming. It is difficult to focus on the material and immaterial worlds at the same time.”
“What can we do about that?”
“Use the original Daeron’s Shield, not the simplified version,” she said, seriously. “The Parry is a direct attack on the incoming spell. Daeron’s Shield takes longer to cast, but it protects the wearer by reacting violently to incoming spells.”
“How does that work?” Seldar asked.
“The power in the Shield attacks the spell as it crosses the Shield’s protective layer, disrupting it. You do not have to see it coming; the Shield simply reacts when struck. At least,” she added, “until it is struck enough times to expend all its energies.”
“Is it hard to teach?” I asked.
“It is far simpler than the disruption spell you wear, my angel. Less effective, perhaps, but simpler.”
I looked at Kelvin. He looked thoughtful, then shrugged.
“I think they will learn it, Sire,” he said. “Those who can master it quickly will be an inspiration—and tutors—to those who do not.”
“Do you think that might have saved your horse?”
“Indeed, it might have. Of course, once dismounted, I disemboweled the wizard responsible.”
“When was this, anyway?”
“A few years ago. I think it was the city of Formia that sent troops down the coast to land, then march to our gates. They had a number of wizards hired on to help defend against blasts of fire.” He smiled, slightly. “That does seem to be a problem for invaders.”
“I imagine it is,” I agreed, thinking of Amber.
So, we’ve got a new practice drill. Every morning, first thing, they’ll put up their magical shields as a way to exercise their mystic muscles. They are also responsible for re-casting it whenever it goes down, because everyone is also expected to throw a few Glabrus’ Fists about as the day goes on.
They seem to be getting it through their thick, macho skulls that they need all the help they can get.
I think part of it is that my guys are an incredible example. Everyone is trying to match my three, and that’s not easy. My prototypes—excuse me, personal guards—do things other people simply can’t do. But everyone knows it’s not actually impossible, just very difficult, so they try harder. My the three supermen are actively trying to make everyone else capable of the same feats. They’re not bragging about it; they’re saying, “You can do it, too!”
I think the cadets realize they need every trick they can get… and each other.
In the process, they’re losing some of the macho, me-first, death-or-glory attitude. I don’t think I can be more pleased about that. Teamwork is essential!
So much to do! At this rate, I’ll never go home permanently; I’ll just visit to surf the Internet, order stuff, and maintain a bank account.
On the plus side, at least I’m not bored.
Today, I had my first Official Visit from another principality. Word is starting to get around that the long-absent King of Karvalen is back. I should probably expect more political overtures.
An ambassador from Baret arrived to discuss some trade possibilities. Since I don’t have an Official Office in Mochara, Tort has volunteered her house to be the Royal Residence, and we set up her visiting room as an audience chamber.
If it didn’t involve three days of travel, I’d have met the man in the Hall of Gold in Karvalen—the shiny-ceilinged main hall. Someday, that’s going to make a seriously huge impression on a visiting dignitary. Not today, though.
Lord Melvin—I kid you not: Lord
Melvin
—was the second son of the current ruler of Baret, a Prince Banler, descendant of Baron Xavier. He strongly resembled the old baron, too, but he acted more like Peldar. That is, he was a trifle on the short side, solidly built, and tended to have a supercilious, I’m-nobility-and-don’t-you-forget-it air.
He looked around Tort’s sitting room and sniffed. I don’t think he approved.
Without waiting for permission, he produced a cloth from one sleeve, dusted a perfectly clean chair, and seated himself. He gestured to Pilea, the housemaid, to bring him something. She glanced at me—not at Tort, since this was a formal, official occasion; smart girl—then hurried off to fetch the wine. Tort sat quietly to one side and wore a fixed half-smile plastered on her face. It was a perfectly believable, bland smile, but her eyes glittered. I think she felt insulted. I know I felt insulted on her behalf.