NOVEL NEXT 117 - Snapping Back to Reality Sucks
Archmund swallowed.
Apologizing was going to suck.
It wasn't enough to just say "sorry" for an effective apology. You had to acknowledge what it was you did wrong, and how you'd avoid doing it again.
And if there was one thing he hated, it was being wrong.
But it had to be done.
An apology for Rory. An apology for Beatrice.
Questions for Gelias.
It wasn't like he owed them anything, to be clear. He'd already given them so much, done so much for all of them. But they hadn't wanted it, and it had pissed them off, and… well, he needed their help.
He could admit that now.
He didn't owe them apologies. But if he apologized, it would mend that bridge.
Though it was possible he wasn't actually learning anything from this whole experience. He could easily see himself meandering down the path of rationalization: he needed their help for a very specific magical medical ritual, but for his fields of specialty — graph making and number crunching — he could reign supreme without assistance.
Already he could hear that smug little voice in his head:
Human society, for hundreds of thousands of years, remained in tight little bands of hunter-gatherers, fighting and socializing and all that. Maybe back in those primitive days, all men and women shared equally in all tasks; it was impossible to know for sure. But only after Mesopotamia, ancient China, the Andes civilizations developed agriculture did they truly begin to boom: Surplus calories became available. No longer did the whole of the human society have to dedicate itself to subsistence farming. Humanity began to specialize, allowing for scientists and artists and priests to sprout, creating their great works, monumental architecture and tales and revelations that would last through the ages. Specialization allowed for a certain kind of power that sharing did not, even if the benefits accrued to the guy up top.
It would be so easy to follow that self-justifying line of logic to its natural end point.
He could specialize. Stay the Dungeon-Number-Cruncher, the guy who perfectly automated and mastered the creation of Gems via Monster Cannibalism. Act as their supplier. Exclude them from the process. Build a monopoly — though only for here, as in the upper world the Omnio held a firm grasp on all Gems of commerce.
And that would be it. That would be a dead end. He would be specialized, turned into their necromantic artisan, while they returned to the world and did great things, acted as the heroes of Agraria Duchy.
He could specialize, but was it worth it to specialize in this?
No, it almost surely was not.
Not when he knew the world had far greater mysteries in store.
And he would get bored of making Gems. He was quite sure of it. It was quite far from his long-term goal of doing whatever he wanted after making sure there was nothing that could possibly ruin the possibility of his peaceful life.
The Empire prevented large wars from breaking out between its subjects, but it wasn't entirely tyrannical. It was more than willing to allow for minor border skirmishes and realignments between its more bellicose subjects.
It wasn't as if Granavale had much of a standing army to begin with, except for his personal guard. They would serve as a suitable defense force, but it just seemed a waste to spend their lives conquering their largely peaceful neighbors.
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They had the high ground. Greenroot, Blackstone, and Redmont were all elevated compared to Granavale. Invasion would be folly. Trade embargo would be trivial.
Which was why he had to apologize.
He hadn't lived through noble politics, not truly. He'd only heard lurid stories, most of them a universe away. Kids not much older than him being used as political pawns, whole families slaughtered, childhood grudges left to play out over decades.
Losing friends seemed like a swift way to shorten his lifespan.
"Gemmy," he said. "Can you still locate them?"
"I have the hazy location of Rory Redmont and Beatrice Blackstone," said Gemmy. The Gemstone Tablet reverted to a map view, showing two blinking dots corresponding to them both.
Archmund frowned. "Hazy?"
"They are no longer affiliated with your project, so my precision with regards to their location has diminished," Gemmy said. "I can tell you what section of the Dungeon they're in. I can't tell you what they might be dealing with."
"If they're fighting Monsters, make the Monsters stop as a gesture of peace," Archmund said. "That's what we've been doing this whole time, isn't it? Holding Monsters still so we can summarily execute them."
Gemmy froze. If a weird Gem-sprite could look anxious, it certainly did.
"Gemmy, what are you not saying?"
"Unfortunately, they're listening to Gelias and traversing routes where our influence is weakened, harvesting Monsters for as much raw material as possible."
"Alright. Fine. They can do that. I don't care. That's the whole point of getting them back."
"Because of the lack of your authority, you can't command the Monsters to stop fighting them. You'll be able to teleport to the entrances of the rooms they're in, but no further."
"Alright. Fine. That's okay."
"And once you leave, you should lock it down. So you won't be able to teleport back in here — or anywhere close."
"What? That's the first I'm hearing of this."
Gemmy said nothing.
"Gemmy, explain to me why this would be the case. Why should I do this?"
"The Dungeon has a life of its own," Gemmy said. "A dark spirit, a genius loci in the language of the Omnios! The excess power we failed to capture flowed back to the Dungeon itself. Without you here, to naturally exude your power and establish your authority over the Dungeon, it will become unpredictable."
"Is that why Mary's not getting better?"
"It seems likely!"
"Why didn't this happen when I was portalling over to Rory and Beatrice before?"
"You intended to return, and you weren't trying to buck the Dungeon's structural hierarchy! This time, you'll be leaving a gap. A gap that the Dungeon will gladly fill."
"You can tell I'm turning my back on… all this."
"Again, I'm plugged into all of your thoughts so I can advise you most effectively! I will never betray you!"
If that was truly the case, there was no real way to know that he wasn't just talking to himself but having a Gem projection voice it for him. The only indication that Gemmy was 'real' was that Mary had seen it. And then she'd fallen unconscious, so he couldn't verify again.
"And the Dungeon can also tell that I'm turning my back on this."
"You did a lot of activity creating denser and power powerful Gems! You carved yourself a place in the hierarchy! If you leave, there will be a vacuum left over, and nature abhors a vacuum!"
It made sense.
He looked at Mary.
"Is it safe to leave her here?"
"So long as she's tied into the Dungeon's network, the Monsters won't notice her as a threat! But to be extra safe, I suggest a lockdown! You won't be able to teleport back in, but nothing else will be able to break in without expending a significant amount of power! I suggest putting as much power as you can spare here, and saving exactly enough for four portals."
One for each of them. Rory, Mary, Gelias, and back.
"How close would I be able to make it to here on the portal back?"
"That's up to you," Gemmy said. "I suggest far enough that nothing will detect her soul."
It scared him, how easily he could do these great workings of magic. He didn't have a name for this technique, but it was the creation of an interdiction field that repelled Monsters, like an electric fence or a magic circle. They would not pass.
A great work like this was practically on the level of a Grand Working — a lesser one, doable by an experienced mage, but nevertheless still far beyond his normal capabilities.
But he wasn't using his normal capabilities.
He was Archmund Granavale, reincarnated child prodigy, but for the past sixteen hours he'd sat as a master of a Dungeon. And so he marshaled not his own power but the dread miasmic power of the Dungeon, its polymorphic detritus, its crystalline sepulchered power, and fed it into the working.
He could feel it sliding over his spirit, like the shell of some great worm or a plastic wrapping being rolled off a cucumber, but it didn't flow through him like all his other magic.
This grand working, like all the great feats of modern Earth (by the era he'd died), was done by sitting at a screen and tapping a few buttons.
And then it was done. Nothing changed to the eye or senses, but he almost felt a pressure on his chest, the very air scathing his skin as he walked through it. Really, it felt like anxiety.
Well, he had plenty to be anxious about.
He opened a portal and prepared to apologize to Rory.