Casting Shadows (The Passing of the Techno-Mages #1) Read online

  Galen reached into the mug to pick out the piece of dirt and realized he’d been right the first time; it was a bug. He could clearly see the legs moving. He pinched at it and was startled to feel a flutter. Tiny wings opened and the bug flew away.

  It landed on Elric’s open palm. Elric closed his hand around it. “Rather than accept uncertainty, people will discount the input of their own senses.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you like some water in that?”

  Galen looked down at his mug. It was empty.

  After gulping down some water, Galen prepared to face his greatest weakness. “Originality,” Galen said, as Elric resumed his hold on the chrysalis.

  Galen had been struggling with this issue for months. Each mage cultivated his own distinctive style, specific types of spells that he cast and characteristic flourishes that appeared in those spells. Elric had taught him that a mage’s conjuries should reveal, express, and complete him.

  Yet Galen had thus far failed to develop his own style, his own set of flourishes. He much preferred to reproduce the spells of others rather than create his own. He wasn’t terribly good at inventing his own spells, and when he did manage to think of one, he often discovered it had been conjured before. It wasn’t original. The few times that he had thought of something new, he’d discarded it, having decided the spell was unworthy and foolish compared to those of the greats. And although that was accurate, it was not the whole truth. Something else made him hesitant to develop his own spells. The idea of displaying something that had come from within him, something original to him, made Galen very uncomfortable. He found he did not want to reveal himself.

  He had searched for some solution that would satisfy Elric and help lead him toward his own style. At last he had settled on a tribute to Wierden.

  So he closed his eyes a moment, clearing his thoughts, and again visualized a blank screen on which he might write equations. Then he opened his eyes, determined to give a better presentation.

  He extended an arm. From his five fingertips he conjured five brilliant points of light that rose upward, spreading to form a circle three feet across. In the center he created a foot-tall image of Wierden, who had formed the techno-mages into a cohesive group one thousand years ago. She was one of an ancient, extinct race called the Taratimude, with great stiff wings that hung in folds from her arms, and long, tapered fingers. In the image she wore a sleeveless black robe, her golden wings draped over it. She spoke in the ancient language of the Taratimude the words that every mage knew. “Our five wisest will form the Circle, which will guide and rule the techno-mages. Five is the number of balance.” Her voice, which he had reconstructed from the ancient recordings, was high yet resonant.

  Galen stretched the five points of light taller and wider, until the image became a circle of seven standing stones glowing with inner light, Wierden still at their center. Each stone was imprinted with a different brilliant blue rune in the language of the Taratimude. Galen rotated the image, so Elric could see the rune on each stone. Wierden said, “Above all will rule the Code, the seven principles of technomancy: solidarity, secrecy, mystery, magic, science, knowledge, good.” Galen saw with satisfaction that he had correctly coordinated the motion of the stones so that Elric saw the rune representing each principle as Wierden named it. “Seven is the number of understanding.”

  The standing stones stretched longer, arcing inward at top and bottom to form a large sphere of light. Inside appeared the face of Wierden, with her wise, lined cheeks, the dark skin around her eyes that had always struck him as sad. “Let this begin an age of unity for the techno-mages. And let none violate the Code.”

  Galen squeezed the sphere into a narrow cylinder of brilliant light, sent the light streaming up to the thatched ceiling. He had worked painstakingly to create the visual impression that the light was flowing through the thatch and continuing upward, into the heavens, though it actually stopped there.

  Galen dissolved the final spell with relief. It was the most elaborate conjuring he had ever done. He swayed a bit as Elric released him.

  “Dissociate,” Elric said.

  Galen nodded, breathless, and focused on the equation that terminated the connection between his chrysalis and the implant at the base of his skull. The implant—much simpler than those of a full techno-mage—had been inserted three years ago, when he had entered chrysalis stage. While the connection between the chrysalis and his implant was active, the chrysalis remained bound to his body, clamped onto his head and sealed to his spine with the thin layer of his robe trapped between them. The chrysalis was drawn to him by the kindred implant that had originally been a piece of it.

  He successfully broke the connection, feeling a familiar relief as the pressure against his body lessened. The device relaxed with a squelching sound, and Elric lifted it off. Wearing the chrysalis always provided an underlying sense of energy, a subliminal vibration or resonance. Now he felt the accompanying drop in energy. The cool air prickled over his hot skin. He ran a hand through his short hair, which was plastered to his scalp.

  Galen followed Elric to the bench, where Elric lowered the chrysalis into its clear canister. Floating in the liquid, it looked somewhat like a terrestrial jellyfish. The umbrella-shaped top that clung to his head resembled the bell of a jellyfish, while the extension that ran down his spinal cord looked like one of its long oral arms.

  The chrysalis had grown thicker and wider in the three years he’d been training with it, and its translucent skin had gained a silvery sheen. Elric had explained that it had been only partially formed when Galen had begun to work with it. That was why the first year of chrysalis-stage training had involved only the visualization of different spells, and no casting. The chrysalis had been adapting to him, adjusting itself to his patterns of thought, in a way almost mirroring him.

  The process had continued even after he’d begun to cast spells. That was why the echo from the chrysalis had grown progressively stronger. As Galen was being trained, so was the chrysalis.

  Galen was struck again by the brilliance of the Taratimude. They had developed a technology that could read one’s very desires and out of nothing, conjure them. Their scientific understanding had been incredibly advanced, their sense of beauty, of magic, unequaled. What spells Wierden’s people may have conjured, the mages would never know. When nearly all of them had died in a great cataclysm, most of their knowledge had been destroyed. The few survivors, Wierden among them, had decided to share what tech they had, and the secret of replicating it, with other species.

  Wierden had formed the Circle and established the Code, and the techno-mages in their current form had been born. Yet their understanding of the brilliant science that had designed the tech had been lost. Galen feared the mages would never again be the equal of their predecessors.

  “You honor the work of Wierden through your conjury,” Elric said, closing the canister.

  “Yes.”

  “Well and good, but what is your work?”

  Galen didn’t know. His parents, both mages, had died when he was ten. After that, he’d wanted to be a healer. That desire had remained with him all the way to age eighteen, the time of the last convocation. At that gathering, he’d entered chrysalis stage and taken the name of Galen, an ancient Greek physician and philosopher.

  But in the three years since then, he’d realized he had no aptitude for healing. His work as a healer was ineffective at worst, incompetent at best.

  He now felt the answer to Elric’s question might lay in the work of the ancients, which fascinated him, but he didn’t know how he could contribute to that great work. His conjury had simply paid tribute to the accomplishments of Wierden, without showing how his own work would relate to them. He had failed to create something original. He stared at the floor. “I’m not sure,” he answered finally.

  Elric headed for the door. “Good technique and precision on that,” he said quickly.

  Galen jerked his head up. Elric had sworn always t
o speak truth to him, and in the eleven years Elric had trained him, Galen had received praise only twice before.

  Elric paused beside the door. “Have you considered the question I posed yesterday?” His voice had returned to its deep, measured tones.

  The question—Why are you a techno-mage?—was one that all chrysalis-stage apprentices would have to answer as part of the initiation ceremonies. The response often helped to define a mage’s work. If he could answer that question, then all his conjuring would have a direction.

  “I’ve thought of little else,” Galen said.

  “And have you thought of an answer?”

  “To study the work of the ancients, to further their work where I can.”

  “To further their work.”

  “It seems so much more worthy than any work I can think of.”

  “It is worthy. But you must make it your own.” He grasped the door latch, said the password. “Archimedes.” Elric’s containment field around the hall kept others out, and held any wild energies within. “You will show me something original tomorrow morning.” Elric strode out.

  Galen picked up the canister and followed. He had nothing more to show Elric. He had put all his expertise into the tribute for Wierden. He could think of nothing truly original, nothing to equal the work he admired.

  Outside, the sun was high and the mist was thin, adding a hazy, brilliant overlay to the surroundings. The brisk sea breeze cooled Galen’s sweat-soaked body. He took in the sharp sea air. The mak, the huge plain of moss-covered rock on which they stood, was a brilliant lime green today. About a hundred feet away, swathed in mist, stood the edge of the great stone circle that marked Elric’s place of power. The seven stones, marked by the seven runes of the Code, stood over twenty feet high. With their moss shrouds, they appeared almost like outgrowths of the planet. Beneath the circle, in a chamber hollowed out of the rock, was Elric’s place of power, which augmented and enhanced his abilities and connected him to the planet itself.

  Elric was looking toward the area where the convocation was to be held, beside the cliffs that overlooked the sea. Over the last several days, Elric and Galen had set up an extensive network of interconnected white domed tents where different meetings would be held, Elric marking them with glowing runes and symbols to indicate their various purposes. Once the tents had been set up, the two of them had supervised as supplies and workers had arrived.

  Elric kept the preparations as simple as possible. Most of the workers he drew from the local town of Lok, though large supplies of food and a few specialists had to be brought in from the city of Tain. Keeping five hundred techno-mages happy for a thirty-five-day convocation would be no easy task.

  Although Galen could see only hints of movement among the mist-shrouded tents, he knew they must be busy with activity. As of this morning, everything had been going according to schedule, but Galen knew Elric was anxious. The sites of the convocations rotated among the homes of the five members of the great Circle. This was the first to be held on Elric’s home planet. Of course, that didn’t mean Elric would cancel a practice session—even though the mages were expected to begin arriving in a few hours.

  Elric turned his stern gaze on Galen. “As a group we seek wisdom. As individuals we can be eccentric, peevish, perverse, opinionated—apt to take offense upon small occasions. Act with restraint. Be courteous. We get along best at great distances from one another.

  “Every convocation has its confrontations, its challenges. You’ve been sheltered in the past. Once you’re initiated as a full mage, you won’t be under my protection any longer. Others may challenge you, to test your powers or prove their own. Do not rise to the fool’s challenge to be a fool yourself.” Elric straightened. “Your friend is coming.”

  Galen turned. Behind them, a scrap of orange flashed through the mist. Orange was Fa’s favorite color; she wore it almost all the time. Her orange jumper emerged first from the white mist. Then her limbs and face, covered in curly wisps of white hair. Her legs were small and delicate—she had only eight cycles of the sun, or ten years Earth standard—yet she traversed the uneven rocky plain nimbly with her broad feet. Externally, her species, the Soom, appeared surprisingly humanoid. The most striking difference was that at midleg, the knee joint bent back rather than forward, as was the case with many of the species on the planet. Galen had spent so long here that his own legs sometimes struck him as odd.

  Fa ran across the mak toward them. She waved—a gesture she had learned from him and used with tireless enthusiasm. “Gale! Gale!”

  “Would you like me to check on the preparations?” he asked Elric.

  “Don’t you think we should see what your friend has to say?”

  Galen sighed.

  Fa became hesitant as she approached them. She was always nervous around Elric.

  “Good day, Fa,” Elric said in the language of the Soom. Both Elric and Galen knew the language well; Galen had lived there eleven years, Elric over thirty.

  Fa straightened—she was proud of how much she’d grown, the top of her head now above Galen’s waist—and gave a quick nod of her head, a sign of respect. “Good day, Honored El,” she said. Her eyes shifted back and forth between Galen and Elric, and then her self-consciousness seemed to evaporate and the news burst forth. “There’s a big fight in town. Farmer Jae and Farmer Nee may kill each other. You must come. They told me to bring you as fast as I could.”

  The town of Lok was about one-quarter mile away. From their position, the mak extended another hundred yards or so inland, then gradually changed into rising grass upland. Elric could easily perform an exotic propulsion incantation and conjure a flying platform, but there was no big rush to reach the dispute; Farmer Jae and Farmer Nee fought regularly, and the most violent thing they had ever done was toss clods of excrement into each other’s fields. And Galen knew Elric wouldn’t conjure a platform. Elric didn’t like to display his powers before the people of Lok. He had designed his house and the training hall to look as much like their structures as possible. In front of them, he limited himself to just a handful of spells. He said he didn’t want them to fear him or worship him.

  As it was, they considered him a wise man and turned to him to settle disputes. And at times of celebration, they enjoyed his ability to entertain with delightful illusions.

  Holding back in the presence of the Soom was the one issue on which Galen disagreed with Elric. Elric had spent his entire life developing and perfecting his powers. Why not use them? And why not let the people respect him for what he was? Not only a techno-mage, but one of the great Circle.

  “We will hurry,” Elric said, starting for town.

  “I must come! I must come!” Fa cried.

  “You can run all that distance?” Elric asked.

  Galen knew what was coming.

  Fa turned to him, raising her arms. “Gale could carry me.”

  “Galen will carry you,” Elric said, his stern face preempting any argument. He took the canister from Galen.

  Fa leapt onto Galen, locking her arms and legs around him so he could hardly breathe. She was growing too big to be carried. Elric began to run across the lime green carpet of moss. Galen followed.

  “How was your training?” Fa asked, her head bouncing against his ear, the white hair tickling his skin. “Did you show him the lights of Wierden? Did he like them?”

  “He said to work harder.” Galen felt foolish; he couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  Fa licked his cheek, and he jerked his head away in irritation. “He loves you, Gale. He wants you to learn well.”

  “I know,” Galen said. She didn’t understand. He didn’t think he could do what Elric asked.

  “You’ll do better tomorrow.”

  Galen nodded. He adjusted his grip, pressing her more tightly to him, and they ran through the mist.

  “I warned you to keep that cursed Jab off my land,” Farmer Jae yelled.

  Galen rounded Farmer Jae’s
barn and made his way through the crowd that had gathered at the common border of Farmer Jae’s and Farmer Nee’s properties. Weighed down with Fa, he’d had to slow to a walk near the outskirts of Lok, so Elric had arrived ahead of him.

  “My Jab wouldn’t have your filthy swug if she was crazy drunk,” Farmer Nee said.

  Galen reached the front of the crowd, and Fa squirmed out of his grip, dropping to stand beside him. Jae and Elric stood on the near side of the low stone boundary wall, Nee on the far side. The differences between the properties were dramatic. The yard surrounding Jae’s barn and outbuildings was clean, his equipment lined up neatly for use in the grassfields. Nee’s yard was cluttered with discarded, rusted tools, the dead remnants of failed gardens, and the elaborate contraption that was his livelihood: his still. Apparently the clod-throwing had escalated to a higher level this time, because both farmers were marked with large olive-colored splotches. Small pieces of excrement clung to their coveralls, and a fairly large piece hung from the curly white hair on Farmer Nee’s cheek in apparent defiance of gravity.

  Elric turned, his hands raised. “And now we have silence. That is good. Farmer Jae will tell his side.”

  Farmer Nee mumbled in protest; a look from Elric silenced him.

  “Honored El.” Farmer Jae smacked his lips as he gathered himself to speak. “I went in to feed Des today at highsun. He was lying on his side and wouldn’t get up. He hadn’t eaten his morning meal.” Farmer Jae’s prizewinning swug, Des, was the cause of many disputes. Jae cared for him with fanatical devotion, feeding him the finest sea spree four times a day, bathing his flabby bulk in sea water, and rubbing kwa blossoms into his bumpy skin to bring out its sought-after mottled coloration. As the villagers said, Farmer Jae cared for Des as if he had moss growing out of his head. He was convinced that any unusual activity in the vicinity was designed to upset Des, a conspiracy by those jealous of the swug’s prize-winning stature. “He hasn’t eaten anything for the past three days. He always eats. He’s starting to lose his color. The judging is only two months away. I know what’s behind this. Four days ago, I had to chase that cursed Jab out of my barn. I know she stung Des.” Jae pointed at Nee. “He ruined my Des!”