Changer (Athanor) (67 page)

Two hours later, he emerges from his room, human-form, freshly showered, and clad in jeans and a tee shirt.  Shahrazad prances at his side, pleased and protective.  They walk together into the kitchen and he systematically raids the refrigerator.  While he is building a sandwich that seems to defy the capacities of a human mouth, Vera comes in.

“I thought I heard you moving.  How do you feel?”

He angles his head to look at her from his one eye as if that is answer enough.  Then he recalls that she has been kind to him: “Weak.  Impaired.  Angry.”

“Reasonable,” Vera says, studying the sandwich with a clinical gaze.  “Want me to get Shahrazad some of her kibbles?”

“If you would.  She’d prefer my sandwich, but I want her eating as well as she can.”

“Oh?”  Vera considers what this might mean as she fills a dish for Shahrazad.

The coyote pup falls to as if this is a duty rather than a pleasure, but doesn’t refuse the food.  The Changer eats with something of frustration in his steady chewing.

“Will you sleep again when you finish?” Vera asks.

“I don’t think so.  Is Arthur available?”

“He has asked to be interrupted whenever you would see him.”

“Then tell him that I will be in the courtyard.”

“Only Arthur?”

“No.  Whoever is here.  I may as well tell my story only once.”

Vera nods, her hand straying as if to pat him reassuringly.  Remembering who he is, she aborts the motion and pats Shahrazad instead.  Leaving the room without another look at the Changer, she misses seeing the small smile that lights his face.

They gather quickly: Eddie with his computer to take notes, Jonathan Wong looking sleepy and fooling no one, Anson making himself popular with Shahrazad by dropping her pieces of his donut, Arthur leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and Vera, thoughtful and alert.

Her gaze strays to a bird perched on the courtyard roof.  Disconcerted, it decides to move on.  Chewing on the edge of her thumbnail, Vera resolves to get Lovern’s wards reactivated.

“I want,” the Changer says, his voice deep and gravelly, “to thank each of you for your assistance these past days.  I am not accustomed to depending on the mercy of others.  It was pleasant to discover it exists—even for me.”

“You are in Harmony,” Arthur says.  “That counts for something.”

“So I have seen.”  The Changer rubs beneath his empty eye socket.  “You have waited patiently for my story.  I have little enough to tell, but what I must tell has implications enough.”

Eddie’s fingers stop racing over the keys of his computer.  “Before you go on, Changer, tell me how you feel.”

“I hurt,” the ancient answers bluntly, “more than I can recall since the days when we stopped warring on each other.  Louhi was meticulous in taking only what she bartered for…”

Jonathan Wong smiles ironically.  “No chance of using Portia’s gambit from
The Merchant of Venice
against her?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Changer says.  “She took her quart of blood and the eye only, but she enchanted her surgical tool to leave a wound that will not heal—even with my considerable skill at such things.  I cannot easily regrow the eye and, if I do not take care, I begin to bleed again.”

Anson hisses angrily between his teeth.  “You may not, old one, but I call that a violation of the trust.”

“I forgot to forbid such,” the Changer says ruefully, “for it did not occur to me.”

“A jury of your peers would be hung on this one,” Jonathan says.

“The Changer has few peers,” Anson answers curtly, “even among us.”

“Let’s not quibble,” Arthur says steadily.  “The issue may never come to court if I read the Changer correctly.”

“Your Majesty”—the Changer bows without rising—“you may try them if you wish.  I plan to treat those who did this to me in a fashion that will remind all why me and mine are not toys.”

“But did you discover why Louhi wanted your eye?” Vera prompts.

“I did,” the Changer says.  “When I went inside the house, I discovered that they had another with them.”

“What?” Arthur says.  “Athanor?”

“In a sense,” the Changer answers.  “In a sense.  Jonathan, you and Vera are too young to recall the time we name Ragnarokk, but these others remember.”

“Remember and were there,” Arthur says.  “It was in the early days of human civilization.”

“I fought at Ragnarokk,” Anson comments, “but my sympathies were torn, shapeshifter that I am.  Still, in the end, I believed that humanity should not be slaves.”

The Changer nods.  “I, too, was torn, but like you I sided with those who would tolerate rising humanity as equals, not dominate them as vassals.  In those days, Lovern was among us, too, though he called himself Mimir.”

“Yes,” Arthur adds.  “Already he was counselor to monarchs and recognized as a wizard.”

Vera clears her throat as a means of getting attention.  “One thing I’ve always wondered.  Why do our people speak of that battle using the names given in Norse legends?  Other cultures, even my natal Greek, tell tales of the battles of the gods.”

“There was an athanor skald,” Arthur explains, “who told the tale among the Norse.  It fit their dark and desperate view of the universe.  He used our own names—altering them slightly to fit the language in which he composed.  Since his version was closest to what had happened, we borrowed his nomenclature.”

“Ah,” Vera says.  “That explains it.”

The Changer continues.  “The king—though he would have called himself a god—that Mimir served in those days is remembered by the name of Odin.  He was mostly just, but eager for knowledge and for power.”

“He traded an eye,” Vera recalls aloud, “for wisdom.”

“He traded an eye,” the Changer says, his voice becoming more gravelly than usual, “but not for wisdom.  He traded it for Mimir’s service.  From it Mimir crafted a magical tool that he promised would give them great power, power that would assure that Odin’s battle would be won.

“Mimir kept his promise,” the Changer continues after a sip of fruit juice, “though ultimately the loss of that eye cost Odin his life.  Using Odin’s eye and, I suspect, his own blood, Mimir grew himself a second head.”

Eddie stirs.  “I recall that his cowl was deformed, but I could not tell why.  Nor was I bold enough to ask what was the reason.  There were rumors thereafter…”

“I heard,” Anson says, “that he later removed the head and used it as some wizards use a crystal ball.”

“That is so,” the Changer confirms.

As the Changer has revealed these old secrets, secrets that do not cast a kind light on his wizard, Arthur has grown somber.

“Changer, you know that Lovern still has that Head.  It was the prize he regained from Duppy Jonah’s realm.”

“Lovern
had
it,” the Changer sighs.  “Lovern—Merlin—Mimir has kept the Head through many lives, many roles.  Until we brought it forth, he visited it only astrally.  However, when he grew afraid for his life he feared to make the astral journey.  Unwilling to do without his valued tool, he brought it from the sea and stored it in his chambers here.  The Head is here no more.”

“This Head,” Anson guesses, “is the other you mentioned.”

“Yes.  I believe that my blood and my eye are to be used to enhance the Head.  From its cryptic words, I believe they will make it a body.”

Vera clears her throat.  “Maybe Louhi means to make herself a match for Lovern’s tool.  Their rivalry is millennia-old.”

“I do not think she would,” the Changer says.  “Even if she knows the means, she knows now what Lovern has willfully ignored.  The Head is not a tool—it is a person in its own right, a talented, powerful person.  I believe that it hates its master and has willingly misled him for who knows how many centuries.”

“Lovern must have known what it was!” Arthur protests.  “How could he not?”

“If the Head did not give him sign,” the Changer says, “or if Lovern chose to ignore those signs, then such ignorance would be simple to cultivate.  Many athanor have nursed the one who would betray them.  We are no different than humanity in this.”

Jonathan Wong clears his throat.  “Do you have any idea how much power the Head might possess?”

“I do not,” the Changer says.  “Does any here know what Lovern most used it for?”

Arthur frowns.  “Predicting possible futures, designing spells and enchantments, and storing bits of lore.”

“In that case,” Vera says somberly, “it could be as powerful as Lovern himself.”

“Potentially so,” Jonathan agrees, “though it may not know how to employ its vast knowledge.  Magic is more than knowledge.  It is the skill to perform the rotes that manipulate the power.”

“But Louhi will know how to perform those rotes,” Eddie says.  “Lovern has long admitted that she is nearly as powerful as he is and, in some ways, more skillful.”

The Changer nods.  “Lovern has had the Head as a crutch—or at least an assistant.  It may have made him lazy.  Louhi has had nothing of the kind.”

Arthur rises and begins pacing.  “So we are faced with Sven Trout—as great a mischief maker as has ever lived—Louhi Maki—a potent sorceress and one with no great love for this House—and this Head.  Changer, did you get any indication of what they desire?”

“No.”

“Will you hazard a guess?”

“Rather, let me offer a question in return.”  The Changer’s tone makes quite clear that he is not merely playing games.  “What might they want—what might they believe that they could gain—that would make the enmity of both myself and Lovern a fit price?  What could they hope to achieve that would be worth the cost of being declared out of Harmony?  The South American contingent did not really believe they would be so declared.  Isidro Robelo was an idealist.  These three are not.”

Arthur shakes his head.  “I know not.  They are endangered already—if not by your actions, by Lovern’s.  Even if they faced the lesser penalty of being declared out of Accord, they could not call upon our protection.  Many of our more warlike people will welcome the challenge of hunting them down.”

“I don’t know either,” Jonathan admits, “but I have suspicions.”

“What?”

“Let me brood a while,” Jonathan says.  “This is not a time to jump to conclusions.”

Arthur looks as if he, too, has suspicions, but that he would prefer not to dwell on them.  The others wait in silence for the Changer to go on.

“I have nothing more to add,” he admits.  “Suspicions of intent do not interest me.  My goals are to heal, then to neutralize this threat to me and my child.  That is all.”

“You will not consult a physician?” Eddie pleads.

“Not at least for now,” the Changer says stubbornly.  “Were I my enemy, I would have spies reporting on Aesculapius and the best of the others.  The lesser ones cannot help in a matter that is medical and magical at once.  As I said before, I do not wish to confirm that I am sorely hurt.”

No one gainsays him, and he continues, “Shahrazad and I will return to the wilds.  There, I can keep her safe, and in solitude I can concentrate on healing.  Wild things often go to earth and rise from injuries that would kill a human.”

“Then?” Arthur says.

“Then I will contact you and trade information.”

“You will not be in contact for the nonce?”

“No.  They drew me out once before by your summons.  I will not permit that to happen again.”

“Ah.”  Arthur muses silently that the Changer’s egocentric view of events is annoying but predictable.  “Then you have made your plans.”

“I have.”

“When will you leave?”

“If your hospitality extends for another three days, I will leave on the fourth.”

“It does, and it will continue to do so even if you change your mind.”

“I will not.”

“I have not forgotten what you did for Vera and Amphitrite.”

“I did what I did for my reasons, Arthur.”

“Still, I am grateful.”

“If that gratitude will keep me sheltered and fed for three more days, then I, too, am grateful.”

Arthur shakes his head.  Perhaps if one has no set form, arrogance can be a form of its own.  He wonders if it is one he would choose, wonders with unusual honesty, if it is not one he has already chosen.

The Changer makes arguing with him over the course of his recuperation impossible by the simple expedient of staying a coyote.  He is a singularly polite coyote, to be sure, refraining from peeing in inappropriate places or tearing up the furniture, but beyond thumping his tail in agreement when offered food and barking when he needs to be let out, he does not communicate.

Resigning himself to the fact that the ancient cannot be swayed, Arthur ignores the shapeshifter with equal courtesy.  He and Eddie begin searching for Louhi, Sven, and the Head, though they don’t feel a great deal of hope.  Locating even a human who does not wish to be found is difficult.  Finding a sorceress and a shapeshifting trickster who do not wish to be found is pretty much impossible.

Still, they must try.  Jonathan Wong departs on the second day to tend to his neglected law practice, promising to continue the search from the East Coast.  Anson agrees to stay a bit longer, but, as he notes, he has been in Albuquerque over a month and eventually even his casual business dealings need his personal attention.