Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

“I can’t. I need to measure.” He went to the desk and opened his notebook. “Here, you see, I measure the increase in the area, based on how much magick I’m using. If you check this chart…”

Her blue eyes narrowed as her finger traced the descending line. “It looks as if the amount of blood loss is decreasing even though your magick use is remaining the same or even increasing.”

“Yes, exactly. And I have good way to measure it, but I find using magick less draining. I theorize this could be because the spell I’m using is one I created myself, so it takes less energy to make it work.”

She glanced up. “I am not certain I follow.”

“Think of it in terms of language. Norillian is not your native tongue, so reading and translating take more concentration than it would for you to read something written in Kessian. Or, a better example, when a cook with vast experience starts putting something together, they just do it their way, putting in what they know is right, and do it faster because that is their routine. They’re comfortable, so they just act, they don’t have to think.” Vlad opened his hands. “The spell to ignite brimstone, for example, starts with me visualizing the sun. But if I’ve lived my whole life in a cave and have never seen the sun, I would have to equate the sun to a torch, the torch to fire, and then use that to ignite the brimstone. By creating my own spell, I don’t have to work through the model someone else dreamed up, I work directly through what comes most easily for me.”

She stepped back, her face darkening. “If this is true, then it would mean that every man could create his own magick.”

“I’m not so certain.” The Prince opened his hands. “There are plenty of carpenters who can drive nails and saw wood, but ask them to design a set of shelves and that might just be beyond them. Just the act of reading, or knowing how to read and write, may make all the difference. In doing either, you translate from the real world to an abstraction. The word apple won’t feed you, but reading it will conjure up the right image, and can communicate to someone else what you want to eat.”

Gisella stared toward the floor for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Which brings you back to the grimoire hidden in the Good Book. The people most likely to be able to read are going to be clergy. While I want your idea to be correct, I fear the consequences if it is.”

“Here is the positive side of it, and why I think it is true. Mugwump is using magick to fly, but no one ever taught him a spell that would let him fly. There isn’t any, as nearly as I know. And as he has flown more, he has bled less than before. Using magick has to be natural for him, even instinctual. It could be that just as magick that is born of him will not hurt him very much, so magick we each create will take less out of us than spells we learn from another. Think of it: the brimstone spell is at least three and a half centuries old. Who, today, thinks as someone might have then? They believed the world was flat and that you could sail off the edge. That we could craft a more natural spell to trigger brimstone shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“No, but it should be a secret.”

“I agree.” If the Church had any idea what I have discovered, they would go after me as they likely have after Ezekiel Fire.

He reached over and gathered up his gloves. “I will fly Mugwump briefly today without reins. We will see how that works, then I will work on the next iteration of these gloves.”

She took the gloves from him and held them out so he could put them on. “You will be careful.”

“Completely. I’ll be back well before dusk.” He pulled her to him and kissed her. “You know that I love you for more than being the mother of my children, yes?”

She smiled and hugged him strongly. “Likewise, beloved husband. Never forget that.”

The Prince entered the wurmrest and walked along the catwalk to the riverside wall. He worked a crank, drawing up the barred gate. Mugwump slowly stretched, then opened his mouth in what Vlad had decided was a dragonly grin. The creature swung his head around so the Prince could fit the disk harness onto his head and secure it in place. He then waited for the bridle and reins.

Vlad shook his head. “Not today. Meet you outside.”

Vlad shouldered the saddle, gathering loops of cinch straps in his other arm, and waited on the lawn for the dragon. When Mugwump emerged, Vlad fitted the saddle between his shoulders and tightened the harness in place. The dragon shifted and stretched, requiring Vlad to give another tug or two on various straps, but soon enough man and beast were satisfied.

Vlad held a hand up and then began pacing his way along the lawn. The day before he’d gone twenty paces or roughly thirty yards. He considered that a significant distance because he was fairly certain that the clicking of the wheels on his gloves couldn’t be heard at that range. If Mugwump responded to the wheels, it was because of the magick. Because the dragon had responded, Vlad moved to twenty-five paces.

Holding his hands behind his back, Vlad invoked the spell and worked the wheel on his right glove.

Mugwump dutifully turned to the right until the clicking stopped. Vlad spun the wheels left and right in no particular order and the dragon moved as commanded. When Vlad spun them both together, the dragon advanced; when he backed them in three staccato clicks, Mugwump retreated.

Vlad brought the dragon around to face him, then spun the wheels forward. He turned to walk toward the path to the training field and Mugwump caught up in no time.

Vlad glanced sidelong into a big golden eye. “We know this spell works at forty yards. That’s a killing shot for a musket. Seems to work quickly enough, but if this magick will make my thaumagraph work, I need to know how fast magick flows.”

Mugwump blinked slowly.

“I do get the feeling you understand what I’m saying.” Vlad shook his head. “And sometimes you seem to wonder why I’m taking so long to understand things you take for granted.”

The dragon swung his head to the right, gently knocking Vlad off course. Vlad stumbled to the side, then looked back. Had the dragon not nudged him, he’d have stepped into a chuck hole.

The Prince laughed. “Is that your way of telling me I overlook the obvious?”

The dragon unfurled his wings and raised his muzzle to the sky.

“Yes-why are we walking when we could be flying?” Vlad laughed and settled his goggles on his eyes. He clambered up into the saddle, strapped himself in, and rolled both glove wheels forward.

Mugwump began a lumbering run that quickly transformed into a graceful lope. With his head held low like that of a hunting feline, the dragon sped forward. Just as he began to gallop, he spread his wings again, then launched himself skyward with a powerful leap and beat of wings. Though Vlad had experienced take-off before, he always grabbed onto his saddle horn. It felt as if he’d left his stomach on the ground.

That little spark of fear died as Mugwump rose through the air. The Benjamin River became a ribbon of silver. Patchy green fields separated by darker green forest swaths covered the ground in a crazy-quilt pattern, which, though lacking regularity, did not lack for beauty. Even the road to Temperance held appeal as it lazily wended its way through vales and around hills.

Vlad spun wheels left and right and Mugwump responded, his wings wide. When the Prince backed the wheels the dragon climbed, and a slow roll forward started a descent. The dragon had learned the commands easily enough, and if the calls he hooted toward the west were any indication, he enjoyed the flight as much as the Prince.

Vlad reached down and patted him on the neck. “You’ve done well, Mugwump, but shadows are getting long. We need to go home.” He slid the wheels forward, then rolled the left one more to turn them back toward Prince Haven.