erratic in their appearance. I think it more likely than not that any children of the union will be heir to rajira.”
“One can hope,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave concern. “My lady wife feels strongly about the subject, the Wenshari magi having adopted Remeran practice.”
“And just where is Baroness Isily?” I asked, casually.
“My wife is a practical mage. She dislikes academic discussions, I’m afraid. Matters of thaumaturgy and enchantment tend to bore her. She’s probably shopping at the fairgrounds. A pity - we have an admirable series of lecturers today!”
He was partially right. There were two or three good academic discussions on theoretical enchantment, as well as an interesting historical lecture that referenced the legendary Grain of Pors (which was sitting in my workshop in my castle) among other ancient wonders.
But most of the lectures were delivered by stodgy old hidebound magi from Alar Academy, Inarion, or gentlemen scholars who had managed a quiet retirement. At one point I thought I had been attacked with a sleeping spell, the subject and delivery was so obtuse. I found it annoying that the lecturers seemed far more concerned with relating amusing anecdotes about legendary figures or citing obscure works few had heard of on topics too subtle for most in the audience.
But there was one mage who captured my attention. A middle-aged man who eschewed the robes the academics preferred in favor of a simple tunic and hose.
“I am,” he began in a properly sonorous voice, “Master Ulin of Setria, in Merwyn. I’ve made an academic study of enchantment reaching back to the Magocracy. Learned masters, I am here to tell you that we sit within the scraps and rubble of a magical culture and civilization far greater than we can imagine. When we speak of enchantment, we refer to mere tricks and essays in the art.
“But why did we lose so much of our sophistication in enchantment and thaumaturgy?” he asked, “Sage opinion holds that the Conquest swept away the last great magi of the Magocracy. Yet we also know that by the time of the Conquest the art of enchantment had already been diminished. The loss of irionite, after the confiscations, is also blamed, for our craft’s poor estate, but there is compelling evidence to suggest that even that great loss was not the cause.”
Master Ulin continued to explain how his researches had revealed that the loss was due to purposeful administrative sanction and economic pressure, not a loss of technique. His theory was that the sudden shift from the urban civilization of the Early Magocracy to the agrarian culture of the Middle Magocracy and the resulting power struggle, forced the political repression of many forms of enchantment that challenged that evolving power structure and the economics that supported it. He listed several compelling examples lifted from the surviving records.
It was a fascinating notion, and one I paid close attention to. The economics of magic has always been a shaky thing. Seeing how our ancestors dealt with it - or didn’t - was instructive. It was clear from Master Ulin’s report that the attempts to control the impact of the effects of enchantment administratively by decree were largely unsuccessful and frequently spawned new and unforeseen problems. Sometimes the authorities tried using incentives to encourage policy on enchantment. More often, particularly later in history, the Archmagi and their ministers had resorted to outright suppression, occasionally leading to rebellion.
Ulin gave several more examples from the Later Magocracy, and then finished up with a brief overview of the Censorate’s brutal approach, with which we were more familiar. A few insightful questions led to a lively discussion on the role of administrative enforcement, and my presence as the current agent of that enforcement was
“One can hope,” he said, as if it were a matter of grave concern. “My lady wife feels strongly about the subject, the Wenshari magi having adopted Remeran practice.”
“And just where is Baroness Isily?” I asked, casually.
“My wife is a practical mage. She dislikes academic discussions, I’m afraid. Matters of thaumaturgy and enchantment tend to bore her. She’s probably shopping at the fairgrounds. A pity - we have an admirable series of lecturers today!”
He was partially right. There were two or three good academic discussions on theoretical enchantment, as well as an interesting historical lecture that referenced the legendary Grain of Pors (which was sitting in my workshop in my castle) among other ancient wonders.
But most of the lectures were delivered by stodgy old hidebound magi from Alar Academy, Inarion, or gentlemen scholars who had managed a quiet retirement. At one point I thought I had been attacked with a sleeping spell, the subject and delivery was so obtuse. I found it annoying that the lecturers seemed far more concerned with relating amusing anecdotes about legendary figures or citing obscure works few had heard of on topics too subtle for most in the audience.
But there was one mage who captured my attention. A middle-aged man who eschewed the robes the academics preferred in favor of a simple tunic and hose.
“I am,” he began in a properly sonorous voice, “Master Ulin of Setria, in Merwyn. I’ve made an academic study of enchantment reaching back to the Magocracy. Learned masters, I am here to tell you that we sit within the scraps and rubble of a magical culture and civilization far greater than we can imagine. When we speak of enchantment, we refer to mere tricks and essays in the art.
“But why did we lose so much of our sophistication in enchantment and thaumaturgy?” he asked, “Sage opinion holds that the Conquest swept away the last great magi of the Magocracy. Yet we also know that by the time of the Conquest the art of enchantment had already been diminished. The loss of irionite, after the confiscations, is also blamed, for our craft’s poor estate, but there is compelling evidence to suggest that even that great loss was not the cause.”
Master Ulin continued to explain how his researches had revealed that the loss was due to purposeful administrative sanction and economic pressure, not a loss of technique. His theory was that the sudden shift from the urban civilization of the Early Magocracy to the agrarian culture of the Middle Magocracy and the resulting power struggle, forced the political repression of many forms of enchantment that challenged that evolving power structure and the economics that supported it. He listed several compelling examples lifted from the surviving records.
It was a fascinating notion, and one I paid close attention to. The economics of magic has always been a shaky thing. Seeing how our ancestors dealt with it - or didn’t - was instructive. It was clear from Master Ulin’s report that the attempts to control the impact of the effects of enchantment administratively by decree were largely unsuccessful and frequently spawned new and unforeseen problems. Sometimes the authorities tried using incentives to encourage policy on enchantment. More often, particularly later in history, the Archmagi and their ministers had resorted to outright suppression, occasionally leading to rebellion.
Ulin gave several more examples from the Later Magocracy, and then finished up with a brief overview of the Censorate’s brutal approach, with which we were more familiar. A few insightful questions led to a lively discussion on the role of administrative enforcement, and my presence as the current agent of that enforcement was
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