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“Dezan has located the artifact.” Walking through the palace gardens with Fendrick, Fenerra stopped to smell some of the flowers she created to help extract the magic from the great tree of Pen-y-lyn. They were twisted in odd shapes, with strange black and purple hues that seemed to darken the areas surrounding them.
“So, that’s the new mission for our troop you had been hinting about? My lady, Tristan’s loss has been hard to come to terms with – and he is in large part the reason why we were able to organise the group in the first place. I fear the team is long past its prime.” Fendrick was dressed in military fatigues; a patterned leather jacket made with the hide of a creature unique to Pen-y-lyn, the mutated porcine creature known as a Grey Pock; alongside a matching pair of pantaloons and thick brown boots. His shoulder was adorned with the emblems of his rank in The Forgotten, a star and three stripes hewn in a dull silver. His heavy footsteps were leaving deep marks in the waterlogged soil as the rain continued to fall on the umbrella he held over Fenerra, at the expense of his own brown locks.
“Why not create a new group? I give you full permission to take whomever you deem appropriate – perhaps this time you could pick allies from your old branch, for your new troop, Captain Fendrick Hurst.” Fenerra dangled the promotion she gave him over his head like a noose, Fendrick could feel it tightening whenever she mentioned it.
I’m the reason for your success, and don’t you forget it, Fendrick couldn’t silence her voice in his head, undermining his confidence at every turn. “Of course, thank you, your highness.”
“Your highness? Fenny, you never call me that unless I’ve really ticked you off. What was it this time? Was my tone too rough? Fed up with carrying my umbrella?” Fenerra pranced away from the flowers she was admiring, forcing Fendrick to play catch-up.
Straining to keep the rain from hitting his queen, Fendrick skipped along after her as she stopped at another bush of blackberries. “Tch, let’s just say the first one and be done with this.”
“Oh my, so stern. I do love it when you get all in a huff.” Pinching off a punnet of berries, Fenerra began to stuff them greedily into her mouth, “Perfect ripeness, just enough magic to take the edge off.”
“Apologies ma’am. I forgot myself.”
“That you did, Fenny.” Fenerra placed another in her mouth and gasped in pleasure, “Absolutely divine, this year’s harvest will be fantastic. Come, let’s see to the greenhouses, I’ll continue briefing you on the mission there.” Prancing off to the nearby doorway to the greenhouse, Fenerra smirked to herself as Fendrick mumbled under his breath.
The pitter-patter of rain on the glassed roof of the greenhouse provided ample cover for Fendrick to sulk as he closed the umbrella, shaking its wetness just outside of the doorway. Catching the eyes of some of the palace gardeners, Fenerra clapped at them, and they quickly collected their tools and made their way out of another exit at the far end of the greenhouse.
“A small island off the east coast,” Fenerra started her thought part-way as she inspected some of the experimental strains she had been cultivating.
“Hmm?”
“That’s where the artifact is supposedly being held. Or was being held… That’s what you’re going to find out. Securing it or its location is of the utmost importance for the next phase of my plan.”
“And this artifact… Its purpose is to do what with the Well?” Fendrick stood to attention alongside Fenerra, as she plucked a quill from the air and began writing notes on a nearby scroll hanging from a placard.
“It’s fabled to be the eastern God of Magic’s tool for creating the Well in the first place. It supposedly can withstand the intense power of the Wells, and with a few modifications should be able to manipulate the magic in whatever way the user sees fit.”
“The eastern God?”
“God is a bit of a misnomer. According to legend, when magic weakly coursed through every pore of the world, a few ancients developed methods of releasing the magic held within the core of the planet. Two vastly different methods were created, with much the same final outcome. The eastern God was renowned for using intricate technologies that have since been lost to the annals of history, whereas the western God coaxed the ground open with the assistance of the Primordial Spirits – the beings that created the very elements of existence. The two have since been revered as Gods for bringing more concentrated magic to the world.”
“Could they not simply drill a hole? Could we have not simply made a new Well in much the same way?”
“Drilling a hole simply releases the magma that courses underneath the hard outer barrier of the planet. Using the artifact, or asking the assistance of the Primordials allows you to create… somewhat of a portal, or a converter.”
“A portal?”
“Magic flows into our plane of existence from the astral sea – a swirling unending realm of pure arcane energy. The power that the Weaver harnessed to create our universe. That energy flows in the very magma under the planet’s crust, and slowly seeps into the ground, weakly dissipating throughout the planet’s surface. Simply releasing the magma creates a volcano – the power released is simply too strong to harness and is locked away in the magma that irregularly flows to the surface. The Gods instead found ways to concentrate the arcane power in the magma, releasing it from deep holes in the ground that we know as Wells. This had the effect of high concentrations of arcane energy making it to the atmosphere, allowing magical races to exist and spellweavers to cast their magical incantations. It’s still simply academic, and potentially unfounded, but with the eastern God’s artifact, we should be able to place another ‘concentrator’ on top of the Vallenfall Well and extract the already concentrated magic into a physical form.”
“Arcanum.”
“Wonderful, you managed to follow that. Not like the other ‘geniuses’ in the upper echelons of The Forgotten.”
“Don’t we already produce arcanum from the great tree?”
“Through pained experimentation, yes, I have been able to produce arcanum from the great tree. If not for me, the entire country of Prestelwyn would have collapsed following the Great Fallout.”
“That accident that transformed everyone… And made them into arcanum addicts.”
“Exactly. If not for my research into the field, our fair people would have simply withered away; their shrivelled, ugly forms unable to sustain themselves.” Fenerra continued across the greenhouse, still making notes on her new plants. “But, alas, mass production has been hitherto impossible, and the tree is nearly withered. These plants were one of the few ways I was able to ‘democratise’ the supply of arcanum to our people.” Fenerra gestured to the plants around her, “Setting up an operation like this in Vallenfall would be almost impossible with the pressures from Inarell; and who knows if my cultivars would be able to survive the magic of the Well.”
“I will exercise extreme caution and diligence when retrieving this artifact, ma’am.” Fendrick pulled his feet together and saluted Fenerra.
“So formal… Oh how I love a man in uniform. See to it that you do.” Stroking his jacket, Fenerra bit her lip before shaking her head and returning to the plants. “Terrible results on this variety, small leaves, pitiful fruit. A shame.”
“Anything to help our people.”
“Ever the dutiful soldier. Thank you, Fendrick, you may take your leave. Strategist Kilnes has been briefed on the mission; please see him for further information and support.”
“Ma’am.” Fendrick bowed to Fenerra, who continued making notes on her plants.
“Oh, and go retrieve the gardeners, they can resume their work now.”
