4.25 Grand Thaumaturge

“It’s quite a fascinating process,” Grand Thaumaturge Jopuri said, pouring coffee into three cups that he’d laid out on Dalbrand’s desk in the archmage’s office. “It almost appears as though you’re melting the malformations away before reinforcing the threads with your exogeneous material structures.”

Dalbrand narrowed his eyes at the man in warning for the gentle attempt to fish for information, but he didn’t say anything. Bernt had just finished his work on the tenth burnout of the day and requested a break. He might have been able to continue longer, but he wouldn’t forgive himself if he ruined someone’s investiture—and their entire mana network—just because he was tired.

“I had some help from a respected pyromantic researcher back home,” Bernt replied to avoid meaningfully answering the unspoken question. “I never would have come up with the concept without his support.”

Jopuri smiled understandingly. “As was his duty, I am sure. We all stand upon the shoulders of those who came before us.”

“Right.” Bernt took a sip of the coffee, enjoying the complex bitter flavor without fear of burning his tongue. “Speaking of that… you mentioned that you belong to an old order. In a way, that means we’re all standing on your shoulders, doesn’t it? Our own craft was built on the foundations provided by yours.”

He wasn’t sure how to appropriately broach the subject, but he really did want to know more about Jopuri’s background. He shot a glance at Dalbrand, who watched with mild curiosity. The archmage wasn’t actively participating in the conversation, apparently focusing more on ensuring that the Madzhuri mage abided by the terms of the agreement that allowed him to be here.

“I suppose it does,” Jopuri smiled approvingly, “but old order magic is not truly so obsolete as you make it sound. We are by far the most diverse group of mages, still.”

Bernt blinked. “Really?”

“Of course. The old empire merely chose to subsidise structural magecraft—your practice of incorporating foreign magic directly into your spirit—as a way to reliably mass-produce powerful war mages for its armies. It was only natural that their institution would spread and find adoption among even our enemies, while ours, like most traditional folk magics, remained constrained to the communities from which they originated.”

Trying not to stare, Bernt glanced back down at Jopuri’s sleeves. That meant this man, a highly respected mage, had absolutely no investitures. So, the stripes represented… academic mastery? Was it like his introductory pyromancer’s qualification? He’d technically been considered a pyromancer even before he got his first investiture. Did they just keep going like that? How far could a mage go if they simply didn’t specialize with investitures?

They would be slower casters, and their spells would never be as powerful as those of a magister or an archmage—they wouldn’t benefit from the magical potential granted by their multiple investitures, so their spirits simply wouldn’t be able to move as much mana.

On the other hand, they wouldn’t need to shape their spirits into a mana network. Before his first investiture, Bernt’s spirit hadn’t been shaped into a conduit at all—it was more like a diffuse cloud or a pool of power that he could draw from. That hadn’t felt like an advantage at the time, but now that he thought about it…

“You can’t actually use this procedure at all, can you?” he blurted. “It only works on us—on ‘structural’ mages. It’s designed to heal an injury that you wouldn’t suffer from in the first place, right?” After all, would an uninvested mage even be able to burn out if there were no clearly defined channels to damage? He furrowed his brow. “Why would they send you to observe me?”

Jopuri shrugged. “It is not so complicated. Our diplomats sent me because I can be trusted to share my findings with my government without holding anything back. My organization and I will not directly benefit from this procedure, and neither am I so powerful or well-loved that I would dare the wrath of the queen herself—long may she reign—attempting to extract favors from her in exchange for this knowledge. Besides, we do not believe in hoarding magical knowledge as a rule.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Dalbrand said dryly over the rim of his cup.

“It is the truth!” He looked genuinely offended, sparing a glare for the archmage before turning to face Bernt fully as if to symbolically cut the other man out of their conversation. “We may not be friends today, but if you keep your head down and wait for the squabbling of priests and nobles to settle, I invite you to make your way to the great library of Kolpuri. You will find its doors open. We have knowledge that may be of interest to you—you are not the first to seek to understand the sorcerous arts.”

Bernt’s eyes widened so far he thought they might fall out of his head. “You have research?! The only humans with any mastery are the Mirians—I’ve looked everywhere, and there’s nothing!”

“Mastery is one thing,” Jopuri shrugged, “but knowledge… We still have original records detailing research done millennia in the past in our tablet library. Sorcery was a field of some significant interest in the pre-imperial era. I wouldn’t spread that fact around too much in your place, though. Not in this part of the world.”

“Is that a threat?” Dalbrand said, eyes narrowing. “I thought you said you don’t hoard magical knowledge.”

“We don’t—but some things are better not spoken of in… mixed company,” the strange mage replied slowly. “Sorcery was abandoned after the faerie wars for a variety of reasons—one of those being our very specific knowledge about it.”

Bernt looked over at the archmage, who frowned at the man suspiciously. Jopuri, for his part, looked completely serious.

“What knowledge? What do you know?”

“Ah… well. As I said. We are not friends today. You may come and learn of these things when the dust has settled. In the meantime, your ignorance does not endanger you or, to my knowledge, anyone else. But, while I might get away with sharing some obscure information with another dusty academic, the same could not be said for sharing magical secrets with an enemy equipped to use them against us.”

Dalbrand grunted sourly and rose. “Well, then I’ll thank you to not waste any more of our time. Lets get back to work.”

***

Bernt stumbled to the inn that his friends were staying at well after dark. He’d completed eighteen investment procedures today, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away, his mind fuzzy with fatigue. Despite that, he accidentally overheard no less than four conversations about “the underkeeper” on his way here. One claimed he was restoring entire regiments of retired war mages back to the army, while an old woman quietly lamented that the duke was preparing to throw the lives of his people away for a gamble on a known heretic.

Fortunately, while he’d apparently become famous over the last few days, no one knew what Bernt actually looked like. And his robes were not Underkeeper-standard.

The inn’s tables were packed with people—mostly drinking, though he spotted a few bowls of whatever they were serving for food. He scanned the crowd looking for any sign of the goblins or Uriah, but didn’t see anyone familiar.

An overworked barman helpfully pointed Bernt toward the innkeeper, who was trying to break up a disagreement between two patrons before it turned into a fight.

“Yeah, I remember you. You drew on one of my tables the other day,” the man said irritably once Bernt finally managed to get his attention several minutes later. “I don’t have any empty rooms left. One of your friends might make room for you in their accommodations, but it’s still a silver mark a night in that case.”

Bernt grunted and went looking for Nirlig and Uriah’s room. He didn’t have to look for long. Two doors directly across from one another stood wide open and light shone from the one on the right. Glancing inside, he found the goblins, Estrid, Elyn and Uriah all crowded inside. Elyn had her flute out, but she wasn’t playing at the moment, and half-eaten snacks and drinks lay scattered around the room. Ina was leaning on Nirlig’s shoulder, looking like she was falling asleep as Xul’evareg spoke.

“—keep a few of us out beyond the border to report back in case something goes wrong. We don’t really know the relationship between this Zorgrun and King Grundrik, and a bit of caution could be well worth the—ah, finally, you’re here.” She gestured for Bernt to come in. “Uriah said you were in the city, but we didn’t know where you disappeared off to.”

“I was working with the military,” Bernt said wearily. He briefly explained what had happened, but he was too tired to go into detail. Besides, he was more curious to know what their involvement here had been.

“It’s good to hear Olias got through to the old man,” the old goblin said when it was finally their turn to talk. “I was starting to get worried. I tried to explain it to him, but he doesn’t strike me as a reliable sort of man, for a prince. Or the brightest, if I’m being honest. You were arrested right after I told him, and I thought maybe he’d blabbed in front of the wrong people. At least he managed to get you back.”

Bernt sank down next to Nirlig on an open spot at the edge of a lumpy-looking bed. “Told him… you mean about the goblins down in the Depths? The duke said he expects me to clear an impassable route in the Depths for his diplomatic delegation. Olias said you claimed only I could do it. Did you hear they threatened to start a war with Madzhur over me? It’s crazy! What if I can’t do it? I’m not a geomancer—how am I supposed to clear blocked tunnels in the depths?”

“It’s not that kind of blockage,” Xul’evareg said with a shrug. “At least, not the part I saw. Besides, it wasn’t just me. The Karil’dirin shamans agreed with my assessment and have acted accordingly. You’ve been summoned specifically, and no diplomatic delegation will be allowed to pass through their territory without you.”

Bernt doubted very much that duke Renhild saw it that way. His uncertainty at the strange position he’d been placed in boiled over into frustration at the goblin’s irritatingly vague answer.

“What assessment? What can I possibly do that a group of mages can’t handle?”

The shaman made a calming gesture. “I don’t know, exactly, but what I saw was clear enough. A fire spirit haunts the depths in this region, and none may pass through without being consumed. I sought it out, just as two shamans of Karil’dirin have already done to attempt to negotiate, but it refuses to speak. When we ask it what it wants, it only shows us your face and then approaches threateningly. We believe the message is very clear.”

A chill ran down Bernt’s spine at that and his mouth suddenly felt dry. “My face? Like… an image in your mind, or…?”

He already knew the answer. This could only be one specific spirit, or rather a fire elemental. What was it doing under the mountain? And why would it want to see him? Was it even using his face on purpose, or did it just think of it as a way to try to communicate with other fleshy people?

“No,” the old goblin said simply, confirming his thoughts. She cleared her throat and added. “but we’ll come with you. I will, at least. I should be able to keep you safe if it turns out to be hostile to you as well. We’ll see who else is assigned to the delegation. Nirlig, Estrid and Ina will be there—we were the ones who originally made contact for the Adventurer’s Guild. We’ve formally added Elyn to our adventurer group in hopes that she’ll be accepted for this quest as well. Besides, bards are well-suited to interacting with spirits.”

Bernt looked over at her, his eyes falling to her flute. The instrument was infused by the will or some kind of fragment of a spirit, much like his robes were. Unlike him, though, he expected that she had a very close connection to the spirit that made her flute work. He could see how that might allow her music to affect spirits directly. He had his doubts it would be able to do much about this elemental, though. He filed it away in his mind to ask her about later. It was too damned late, and he suddenly felt exhausted.

“Alright, fine,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Just please tell me you have some kind of plan.”

“Sure I do. That’s what we’re here for.” The shaman reached behind her and handed him a mostly full bowl of a brown mystery stew and a clean spoon. “Eat up, you look half-starved. And tell me everything that happened to you over in the Phoenix Reaches. Nirlig already gave me the short version, but… I want to hear it from you. Especially about your encounter at the confluence.”

Bernt raised an eyebrow at Nirlig, who shrugged unrepentantly. He supposed he would have to come clean eventually – as long as it wasn’t to the guild.