“It’s part of the spellcasting process, sweetie.”
“But you don’t always do that,” she pointed out.
“That’s true. Sometimes I just picture the symbols and lines in my mind. That’s when I’m in a hurry, though. It takes a lot more effort to do it that way, but it’s a lot faster, too. This way, drawing it out like this, is slower, but it doesn’t take as much effort.”
I continued for a bit longer while she thought that over.
“So, you put little bits of power into each symbol, instead of a big lot of power into the whole thing?”
I paused and looked at her. She looked back, still with that curious look on her face.
“That’s exactly right,” I told her. “You’re ever so smart. Very good!” She fairly beamed with pride and I went back to scribbling.
“After I learn division, will you teach me how to draw magic symbols?”
“If your mother says it’s okay,” I answered, automatically.
Has
there ever been a wizard fire-witch? I thought about it, but not even the whole library of Zirafel knowledge turned up a single instance.
This could get interesting
, I reflected.
I finished reinforcing Tianna’s skyrocket safety spell; it would act as a safety net for weeks, now—or until it was needed. She would burn through it in a matter of seconds if she tried, but that might give her a chance to throttle back, or give everyone else a chance to take cover.
After sunset and my usual cleanup, I tucked Tianna in with the story about how Arthur pulled Excalibur from the stone, then had to answer some very practical questions, such as how a sword knew who the rightful king was. Even if it could talk, like Firebrand, how would it
know?
I think I got through it without sounding too stupid, but I could be wrong.
Amber and I had a brief discussion about immigrants again; more maimed individuals kept showing up. I told her to let them accumulate; we could handle them in batches every week or so. We also talked about Reth and his potential visit. Amber didn’t seem against it as long as Tianna’s safety spell was still on.
“I’m not sure she needs it,” I admitted. “She’s never shown even a hint of temper.”
“Just the same, it is not safe,” Amber assured me. “If she does, the consequences will be dire.”
“I can’t argue with that. But she’s such a delightful little girl, it’s hard to think of her frying someone even by accident.”
“You’re prejudiced—Grandpa,” she said, smiling.
“Maybe.”
We parted with a hug; I was
very
pleased. I think my daughter has learned to like me. That’s so good for my morale that I don’t know what to say.
Bronze and I headed west.
Velina watched with considerable interest as I started telling people’s bodies to start growing their missing bits. I took the time to show her some of the details and help her with the fine points on the various spells involved. In theory, she can cast the spells, but I’ll admit the process is a moderately complicated one. Neither of us feels comfortable with her trying it just yet.
I suppose I could refine it down to a single sequence of spell symbols—automate the process, if you like—but it would be a long and arduous process to work the whole thing. Maybe I could put the whole thing on a scroll, like a recipe to follow.
There’s a thought. If I drew or carved the spells on the floor, could we put someone in a chair, empower the thing, symbol by symbol, line by line? I think that might work. Well, the spells might actually cast, but it wouldn’t work for this particular application. The spells vary considerably, depending on the area to copy and the place to graft it on. Too many variables for it to be a rote casting; the wizard actually has to know what she’s doing.
Still, I could effectively automate a large portion of the process by having a “leg copying” spell, an “arm copying” spell, an “eye copying” spell, and so on… they wouldn’t be versatile, but if you can restore a lost leg, arm, or eye, that would cut down on a lot on the workload.
Speaking of copying and grafting, I’ve run into a problem. My process to restore Tort’s foot—and every other missing bit I’ve encountered—involved copying the intact version, reversing it, and tacking the matrix onto the missing part. This works fine for missing or deformed limbs and other body parts that are replicated on the left and right sides of the body.
One of the patients is missing both legs at the knee. I haven’t got anything to copy!
This is a nontrivial problem.
Now, for Minaren, I copied my own corneas to replace the cloudy ones he had. I was moderately comfortable with that, mainly because I’m pretty sure they’re just organic lenses. If I remember correctly surgeons even replaced corneas with artificial ones, sort of built-in contact lenses. So, nothing major there.
I’m
not
comfortable with copying other bits of me, using my own body as a pattern for people to regrow lost parts. My muscle and bone are decidedly unnatural; I’m not sure if humans
can
grow those bits, and I’m even less sure if they’ll have side effects.
I fixed everyone I could—well, got them started—then Velina and I took Grigor, the guy with shortened legs, aside. He sat on a plank with wooden wheels; he pushed it along, slowly, with his hands. I explained the problem to him.
“So, you see that we can’t just hit you with the spell and move on,” I finished. He nodded miserably. “However,” I went on, “I have an idea. It hasn’t been tried, so it might not work. There’s also an outside chance that it might actually be harmful. But I think it likely to work, and if it does, you can grow working legs.”
“If you’re waiting for me to beg,” he said, calmly, “just say the word, my lord.”
“No, I just wanted you to know what you’re getting into. I’ll try it, if you want, but you should know that it’s untested.”
“I’ve been shortened for eleven years,” he told me. “If there’s a chance I can get legs, I’ll do it.”
“Nothing to lose, is that it?” I asked, quietly.
“Nothing I care about,” he answered, just as quietly. I had already noticed his hands were wrapped in rags. They were also bloody, presumably from pushing himself along. I wondered where he came from and how he got this far. I stopped wondering about how far he would go.
“All right. We’ll need to take some measurements,” I told him. Velina fetched me some string and I did some calculations. Eventually, I tied two knots in the string to mark the length. I was confident we had a close measurement of the length of Grigor’s legs when he was whole.
Velina woke up a lot of the Prince’s soldiers and we started taking their measurements. They didn’t seem pleased about it, but they kept it to themselves. I don’t know if that was because of me, a visiting king, or me, a visiting nightlord, or me, a visitor in the Prince’s good graces, or Velina, the Prince’s wizard.
I suspect it was Velina. I’m not sure any of them recognized me. Her, they knew—and treated her with deference, respect, and possibly more than a little fear. Well, wizards can be scary people. It made me wonder how the rest of Rethven thought of Karvalen as a whole. A kingdom of wizards must be rather frightening.
We found a couple of suitably long-legged individuals, then narrowed down our choice by measuring thigh-to-shin ratios, hip circumference, and the like. The man with the best fit was simply drafted; Velina apparently had the authority—or just the clout—to do that.
With Grigor and Prellin—the soldier—lying next to each other, I went through the copy process, twice. Once for each of Grigor’s legs, but each of them running at half speed. As usual, I cautioned him that it would take a while, possibly a long while, before he could walk again, and that he would be hungry all the time.
“That might be a problem, my lord,” he admitted. “I’m always hungry, anyway.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a beggar,” he said, stiffly.
“I meant, what did you do before you were injured?”
“I was a horse archer for Harkin.”
“Harkin?”
“Prince Harkin, Duke of Carrillon and rightful King of Rethven, or so he says.”
“I see. Do you intend to go back to Carrillon and return to his service?” I asked. He spat. I held myself answered. “In that case,” I continued, “would you like a job?”
Velina and I made arrangements for him to be fed, clothed, and transported to Mochara. Velina even made sure I wasn’t charged anything for it; the city of Baret was pleased to do all that simply as a courtesy.
Once we had all that sorted out, Velina brought up another matter.
“If you aren’t tired,” she said, “I have some messages for Your Majesty.”
“It’s night,” I noted. “You can just assume I don’t get tired.”
“Of course. Naturally. I’ll remember.” She paused, awkwardly, then regained her original train of thought. “There are a number of messages about other infirmities, asking for you to attend them. I’ve spoken with the Princess of Mochara and she tells me that it is unlikely that anyone can summon the King of Karvalen without truly desperate reason. A few of these may meet with your approval in that regard. Will you see them?”
“The messages? Sure.”
There were a number of them, most of which were simply requests for house calls. While I agree, in principle, with the idea of being attended by a physician in your own bed, I also recognize that it’s probably more practical to group the wounded and sick together wherever the doctor happens to be. It’s a question of limited supply. Doctors are hard to come by; wounded appear seemingly out of nowhere.
I grouped them into two piles: House calls, and cries for help. The house calls were people who didn’t feel like traveling; the cries for help were people who couldn’t travel. By that standard, there were about twenty house calls. There were two cries for help.
The first cry for help was from Prince Jorgen of Hagan—or, rather, from his wife, Taisa. While he was apparently quite capable of coming to me on his own, she was restricted in her ability to travel without his permission, and their daughter was not fit to travel. According to the message, she suffered a fall and a head injury; they included a list of symptoms.
The second cry for help was from Prince Raman of Tolcaren. His eldest son was badly burned a couple of years ago, in a fire aboard ship. It caused the loss of sight in one eye, difficulty in both breathing and walking, massive scarring, and constant pain—any long trip, even in a carriage, would be torture for him.
I decided to pay a call on Prince Jorgen. Prince Raman’s son had survived for two years; he would survive another week. A girl with a cracked skull might be dying.
Once I finished going through the paperwork, I shoved the pile of house calls off on Velina.
“If you could find a scribe, would you be so kind as to send these back?” I asked. “Invite them to come to Mochara, if they like, but the King of Karvalen cannot be casually summoned. Diplomatically and tactfully, of course.”
“I will see to it immediately, Your Majesty.”
“Wait until morning,” I advised. “Scribes need to sleep. So do you.”
“Indeed. I will be happy to wait upon Your Majesty’s pleasure, however.”
“Hit the bed. I’m going to use the mirror, check on the canal, that sort of thing. If I leave before dawn, I’ll be sure to leave a message.”
Velina gratefully went to bed. Well, it was awfully late.
Come to think of it, it was probably rude to call people at this hour, anyway. I decided to inspect the canal works, first, then call home after sunrise. I also decided that we needed people to take shifts in the mirror room, just in case an urgent call came in.
The canal was coming along well. They were digging a wide trench about twenty feet from the western wall of Baret. This dislocated a lot of the low-rent district outside the city proper. Someday, Baret was going to need to build a new wall, farther out. The place kept growing.
Both ends of the soon-to-be-canal were blocked off, both the river end and the sea end. It would be a while before they installed gates; these were just dams so the canal wouldn’t flood while they worked on it. There were already several wagonloads of stone near at hand, some worked into blocks, but most still in the raw, fresh-quarried state. Someday, when the canal was deep enough, they would face the walls and floor with stone, then install the gates.
I was going to do some digging, mainly because I had some time to kill, but I had one of those pesky psychic feelings, again. I sighed inwardly, since I wasn’t breathing, and went to hunt it down.
Them. Hunt
them
down.
The rest of my late night/early morning was spent with a number of very old people and their immediate families. Every time, I had to explain who I was and what I was, and most especially why I was there.
Back home, if someone showed up at four in the morning to talk to a family about how Great Grandpa George was ready to die, there would be shotguns involved and a real mess in the yard. Around here, they routinely accept that magical beings exist, that there is an afterlife you can practically touch, and that people have a Destined Moment to Die.
One legend or myth says that there are two old women, sisters, who sit somewhere and weave the Ribbon that wizards see; others say that the Ribbon is just a bit of the greater weaving. Whatever, these two sisters weave the threads of the world together to make a great tapestry of life.
One of them is fairly clumsy, so she has a lot of spiders to help her with the fine details, and that’s how we get all those little, insignificant moments in our lives, good and bad alike—spiders are good weavers, but they don’t really care about people, and the sister in charge can’t keep an eye on all of them all the time.
The other sister is very dexterous, so she weaves by hand, making sure all our ultimate destinies fit into the grand design. Born here, lived there, died on such-and-such a date, that sort of thing. She handles the big stuff, and she’s basically a good person. She tries to keep things nice for everybody, but sometimes the spiders get into her weaving and she has to shake them out, which can really mess up her pattern and cause misery.