Story #196 - Remnants

Remnants

“Think of it like a reservoir, your Majesty, one that's been tapped repeatedly and consistently over time.” Conjurer Sweftly hoped that this metaphor, at least, would reach penetrate into the mind of the king. It wasn't that the monarch of the Seven Hills was stupid, by any means, just that he lacked the expertise in magic that so many humans did. King Tyrn was clever enough to allow the Conjurers full reign over magic use in the kingdom, and that meant the order had at least a responsibility to tell the king what was going on.

As the most junior member of the order, Sweftly had been given the 'honor' of explaining to Tyrn that they were running out of magic.

“Couldn't you simply find another one?” Tyrn asked, folding his hands in his lap. He was a kind and patient monarch, but like many in the Hills, saw little direct benefit from the use of magic. This was in part due to the fact that so little was left, and all Conjurers were restricted to using only tiny portions of the remainder, but Tyrn and the citizenry of the kingdom did not know that. To them, magic was something the Conjurers spoke of but almost never used, and when it was employed produced results that were not as spectacular as imagined.

“I'm afraid not, your Majesty.” Sweftly shifted in his chair. It was a rare monarch that let a supplicant sit in their presence, but Tyrn had not only offered him a chair, but one more comfortable-looking that the king's own. He wished he had better answers to give the man. “We've been trying for years to find an acceptable substitute or way to replicate what's been lost, but all in vain. Part of the problem is that to do anything significant for the cause requires we use a great deal of the magical energy left, and if our plan fails, the remainder is even smaller than before.”

“How long?” Tyrn was not one to waste time or words.

“A year, at best – provided all users comply.” They should; there had been no apostate Conjurers for three centuries, and the less than two dozen in service of the Hills all knew better than to draw more than they were allotted. Still, this meant a slow death for magic, one Sweftly had hoped not to see in his lifetime.

Tyrn nodded. “So why not simply end it now? Use it all as aggressively as you can trying to find a solution and be done with it. If you do, so much the better. If you do not, well...” the King hesitated for a moment, and Sweftly felt a touch of amusement. Even Tyrn didn't want to call them useless.

“Let us just say that I have not seen the benefits of magic for some time now, and even reading the histories of my father and grandfather find little to suggest that it has been a significant part of the running of the Hills for generations now.”

“Very true, your Majesty.” There was no point in denying the obvious. Ancient texts in the Reliquary told tales of battles won and lost thanks to Conjurers, of lands razed and bloomed under the care of magic, but for three centuries the art had been dying a slow death. “I would suggest the same, but many of those in the order would prefer to let magic linger as long as possible. We are unsure what to do, but wished to keep you informed.”

“You are a credit to the order, Sweftly,” Tyrn said, and a bloom of pride swelled within him, “and I appreciate the information.” The King rose from his chair, and Sweftly stood hurriedly. “But other, more mundane matters that require my attention. Tell the order I wish all magic to be used in an effort to find a new source, and that it will be done immediately. You will return to me within the month to tell me that either new magic has been found, or the reservoir has dried up. Do I make myself clear?”

Sweftly stood stunned for a moment, then nodded. Tyrn gave the impression of listening as an old friend, with hands clasped and face open, and such direct decision making had caught him off guard. The order would be furious with such direction, but have no choice but to comply – there was hardly enough magic to mount an offensive against the capital, even should such madness be given voice.

“Of course, your Majesty,” he said, bowing, “it will be done as you ask.”

“Excellent,” Tyrn said, “my guards will show you out.”

***

Sweftly knew the order would be expecting him back within the week, but thanks to the King's quick decision, he had four days of his own, four days the other Conjurers knew nothing about.

He had tried very hard not to think about the route he was taking, not to consider fully what he was doing. Speaking with the others of the order and reading the texts had brought to light the stark and simple fact that magic as he knew it was dying. No amount of clever use or re-invention of the source was going to provide an answer – something new was needed.

Rolling hills gave way to forest, and after two days Sweftly found himself at the edge of Burgess Swamp, considered by many to be the most foul and dangerous land in the Hills.

Bragoda, the Man of Swamp lived here, and those nearby whispered that he was a rogue Conjurer, one who still used his magic for his own good and the detriment of others. Sweftly had learned better through his research; Bragoda used a form of magic almost unknown to the Hills, one that relied on a different source than the quickly-drying remnant. Blood magic.

Drawing in a deep breath, Sweftly moved into the swamp itself. Bragoda would find him, he was sure of that – incursions into the man's territory did not go unnoticed.

- D