have to travel to all ten clans; instead they can trade whatever they need in one centralized
location.”
Pacing, Phoebus elaborated. “Each section of the city will be dedicated to one clan. Within that section members of that clan
will live and work, communicating with the clan’s seat in order to arrange shipping routes.”
“It is a radical idea. We haven’t had people live apart from their whole clan in generations of summers,” Spiralmaster said,
his delivery obviously mocking Chieftain Nekros.
“Visitors to our empire will see the effectiveness of Aztlantu rule: the uniformly built city, the skill of the artisans and
workers, a modern port, and a beautiful temple to Kela. All this will symbolize and epitomize the might of Aztlan.”
“What about Apis?”
Phoebus turned. “There is no Nostril of the Bull on which to build. Those who seek to pay homage to Apis can travel easily
by boat to the Pyramid of Days on Mount Stronghyle or they can go overland to Mount Apollo.”
Spiralmaster sat in silence, and Phoebus waited. “You didn’t answer the question about the radical—”
“Aye!” Phoebus sighed deeply. “It is a new reign, Council members. I am
Hreesos
. Prostatevo will bring greater prosperity to our empire. It shall be done.”
Spiralmaster chuckled. “Nekros won’t like you for that—he’s losing a brother after all—but he will respect you.”
Phoebus approached the table where Spiralmaster had been working. “What are you doing?”
“It’s the elixir.”
“Jus—”
“Before you say anything, boy, I want you to know how close we are.”
Phoebus looked at the vials and bottles of dried animal and vegetable matter. “It cannot be done,” he said.
Spiralmaster growled low in Egyptian and pulled Phoebus behind him. They walked to the darkest corner of the room, and Spiralmaster
proudly turned back a curtain.
A pig lay on its side, breathing shallowly. Its eyes were glazed, but it was alive.
Phoebus felt a chill run through him. “You did it?”
“Aye. The broken child’s blood beats inside the pig’s body.”
Sunset before yesterday, a child had fallen from the cliff. His neck had snapped, but a low ledge had prevented his body from
being dashed on the rocks. While his blood still flowed, Spiralmaster had attempted to transfer it into the body of a pig.
The two essences were the closest, he felt. The elixir would bond them through
al-khem
, a pig with the blood of a human.
It was obscene. It was fascinating.
“Has it moved? Can it?” Phoebus asked.
“Now that we know we can move the blood of a child into a pig, I want to know if the reverse is also true,” Spiralmaster said.
“Is the pig going to live, actually be able to eat and rejoin his herd?”
Spiralmaster prodded the pig with a long, trembling finger. The pig grunted but did not move. “If blood can be shared from
one creature to another, then life can indefinitely be sustained. Life is in the blood.”
“My master,” Phoebus said, “are you saying you could share blood from man to man?”
Spiralmaster fixed his dark gaze on Phoebus. “If we can give fresh, live blood to a dying, nay, even a dead creature, then
we can revive it.”
“You think to revive the dead with living blood?” Spiralmaster ignored him, and Phoebus shuddered, offering a prayer to Kela
for protection.
“Spiralmaster! Spiralmaster!” The cry was fear filled and impatient. Phoebus helped the older man into the other room. A scribe,
his eyes wide, sweat streaking down his cheeks, quickly greeted them both. “Master, you must come. A great illness has overtaken
my bloodfather!”
Laboriously they climbed into traveling chairs; Phoebus dared not leave Spiralmaster’s side—at times the mage could barely
walk. They were carried through the maze of rooms in the palace, down the hill, and across the bridge into the city of Daphne.
The scribe, a budding Scholomancer, was the son of an Aztlantu
location.”
Pacing, Phoebus elaborated. “Each section of the city will be dedicated to one clan. Within that section members of that clan
will live and work, communicating with the clan’s seat in order to arrange shipping routes.”
“It is a radical idea. We haven’t had people live apart from their whole clan in generations of summers,” Spiralmaster said,
his delivery obviously mocking Chieftain Nekros.
“Visitors to our empire will see the effectiveness of Aztlantu rule: the uniformly built city, the skill of the artisans and
workers, a modern port, and a beautiful temple to Kela. All this will symbolize and epitomize the might of Aztlan.”
“What about Apis?”
Phoebus turned. “There is no Nostril of the Bull on which to build. Those who seek to pay homage to Apis can travel easily
by boat to the Pyramid of Days on Mount Stronghyle or they can go overland to Mount Apollo.”
Spiralmaster sat in silence, and Phoebus waited. “You didn’t answer the question about the radical—”
“Aye!” Phoebus sighed deeply. “It is a new reign, Council members. I am
Hreesos
. Prostatevo will bring greater prosperity to our empire. It shall be done.”
Spiralmaster chuckled. “Nekros won’t like you for that—he’s losing a brother after all—but he will respect you.”
Phoebus approached the table where Spiralmaster had been working. “What are you doing?”
“It’s the elixir.”
“Jus—”
“Before you say anything, boy, I want you to know how close we are.”
Phoebus looked at the vials and bottles of dried animal and vegetable matter. “It cannot be done,” he said.
Spiralmaster growled low in Egyptian and pulled Phoebus behind him. They walked to the darkest corner of the room, and Spiralmaster
proudly turned back a curtain.
A pig lay on its side, breathing shallowly. Its eyes were glazed, but it was alive.
Phoebus felt a chill run through him. “You did it?”
“Aye. The broken child’s blood beats inside the pig’s body.”
Sunset before yesterday, a child had fallen from the cliff. His neck had snapped, but a low ledge had prevented his body from
being dashed on the rocks. While his blood still flowed, Spiralmaster had attempted to transfer it into the body of a pig.
The two essences were the closest, he felt. The elixir would bond them through
al-khem
, a pig with the blood of a human.
It was obscene. It was fascinating.
“Has it moved? Can it?” Phoebus asked.
“Now that we know we can move the blood of a child into a pig, I want to know if the reverse is also true,” Spiralmaster said.
“Is the pig going to live, actually be able to eat and rejoin his herd?”
Spiralmaster prodded the pig with a long, trembling finger. The pig grunted but did not move. “If blood can be shared from
one creature to another, then life can indefinitely be sustained. Life is in the blood.”
“My master,” Phoebus said, “are you saying you could share blood from man to man?”
Spiralmaster fixed his dark gaze on Phoebus. “If we can give fresh, live blood to a dying, nay, even a dead creature, then
we can revive it.”
“You think to revive the dead with living blood?” Spiralmaster ignored him, and Phoebus shuddered, offering a prayer to Kela
for protection.
“Spiralmaster! Spiralmaster!” The cry was fear filled and impatient. Phoebus helped the older man into the other room. A scribe,
his eyes wide, sweat streaking down his cheeks, quickly greeted them both. “Master, you must come. A great illness has overtaken
my bloodfather!”
Laboriously they climbed into traveling chairs; Phoebus dared not leave Spiralmaster’s side—at times the mage could barely
walk. They were carried through the maze of rooms in the palace, down the hill, and across the bridge into the city of Daphne.
The scribe, a budding Scholomancer, was the son of an Aztlantu
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