Nightlord: Orb (100 page)

“But if you—if we—consume souls, how do they wind up in the underworld?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a lousy deathgod, you know that?”

“True.  I like to think I do pretty well as an angel of death, though.  There’s a major difference between a courier of souls and Lord of the Underworld.  I can’t even run a kingdom.  Heck, I need help to run a charity stand.”

“At least you’re more a psychopomp than psycho-pompous.  I’d still like to know how the whole theological thing works.”

“Me, too—I think.”  I shrugged.  “Lacking a definite answer, I can make some wild guesses.  Maybe there’s something more to the soul we can’t actually sense.  What you and I think of as the soul may only be a consciousness.  The actual soul, in the sense of an eternal, energy-based something, may not be visible to us.  Or maybe we do take the soul and process it through us by taking out all the modulation of memories and experiences and letting the normalized waveform propagate right on through to a new, formative nervous system.”  I shrugged again and moved to another
dazhu.
  “I have no idea.  Next time I accidentally become a deity, I’ll ask.”

Mary didn’t have a witty rejoinder for that.  Probably a good thing.  Instead, she changed the subject.

“You said you came up with a third and fourth option.”

“Right.  Option three was the BFMI approach we used.  Option four was to—”

“BFMI?”

“Brute Force and Massive Ignorance,” I explained.  Mary burst out laughing. 
Dazhu
snorted around her.

“Is that what you call it?” she asked, still giggling.

“It’s apt.”

“I suppose it is,” she replied, suppressing giggles.  I moved to another
dazhu
.  “Option four?”

“Put the kid into a slow-speed hibernation to conserve resources.  Build a gate and go find a suitably technological world.  Find a doctor and get the kid treated.  At the very least, we could get the kid diagnosed.  If they can’t fix it, explaining to me exactly what the problem is, or was, would make it more likely I could kludge together a spell for it.  Combining magic and science produces results—profound results.  It’s enough to make people without access to one or the other think you’re godlike.”

“I’ve noticed.  And the kid is going to be okay, now?” she asked, following me to the next entrée.

“As far as I can tell.  It wasn’t what I really think of as a spell; it was a spell-like pattern, a guide, and we dumped a massive working—or a small miracle, depending on where you’re standing—of power through it.  I
think
the effect will cause her to be exceptionally healthy and long-lived.  I could be badly off on my estimate.”

“Off how?”

“She might need to be treated again next year, but I doubt it.  Or she might be functionally immortal, which I also doubt.  It’s probably somewhere in between.  Let’s wait a hundred years and see.  All I know for sure is she’s okay… for now.”  I sighed and moved to another
dazhu.
  “That’s the trouble with… with… with
wishing
like that.  The results are unpredictable.  It’s wasteful and sloppy and can go horribly, horribly wrong.  That offends my sensibilities.”

“Poor undead master of the dark arts.  People are such trouble, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are!  And quit picking on me.  It’s not easy being a deposed undead king.”

“So I’ve noticed.  You have to live in a high mountaintop and make the pathway to your door dangerous.  Otherwise, you might be swamped with people asking for your help.  How does it feel to be the legendary wise man on the mountain?”

“Oh, my god,” I swore, softly.

“What?”

“I realized right this second.”

“What!?”

“I’m a
cliché
!”

“Huh,” Mary replied, thoughtfully.  “I’d say you’re more of a trope, really.  Kind of from the opposite side, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“The trope is about the Plucky Hero trying to get
to
the Hermit Guru to get some minimally-helpful advice or an obscure magic item before going on a quest.  You’re at the other end—you’re the grumpy wizard in the hard-to-reach place and other people are the Plucky Heroes.”

“Maybe I should start handing out impossible quests and minimally-helpful advice, instead.”

“You need to be more isolated.  Probably grumpier, too.”

“I had a good teacher.  I could fake it.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

Monday, February 2
nd

One of the things I regret about being a nice guy is the way it cramps my style.  Rather than continue development of my Find-A-Tort project, I spent most of the day building power circle spells, magical pumps to supercharge them, and gem-charging spells to suck in and store power.  All of this was merely putting things back in order after the kid’s corrective operation.

It was a busy day, and a tiring one.

Sadly, after the basic lessons in power-circle building and some practice at spellcasting, my work moved past the apprentice level and into much more complicated practice.  Mary, unable to follow, declared she was bored and went out.  I offered to wrap up what I was working on, but she told me to stay; it was important stuff and she didn’t want me to feel obligated.

Naturally, I spent the rest of the morning worried about that.  Should I have insisted on going with her?  Was that what she wanted?  Or did she mean it when she said to stay and finish working?  I took her at her literal word; she said to stay.  She even said it was important stuff and I ought to stay, that she wanted me to stay.

I’m not scared, exactly.  Just… cautious.  Concerned.  Worried.  Whenever a lady tells me to go ahead and do whatever I want, it bothers me.  Maybe I need a translation spell for that.

On a positive note, Dantos came in to see if there was anything he could do to help.  He did the whole one-knee-fist-on-floor thing and started in on a litany of my-king-dread-lord-master-of-shadows-blah-blah-blah before I could spare enough attention to tell him to stop.  A moment later, I finished tying together the ends of a power circle and sat back.

“First off,” I snapped, “if you ever find yourself alone with me again, remember you’re a knight.  As such, you have different rules from other people.  You are requested, expected, and required to address me—at most—as ‘Sire’ whenever we are alone.  Before I go
any
further, you
will
acknowledge what I just said.”

“We are alone.  I shall address you by the title ‘Sire’ exclusively.”

“Good.”  I got a grip on myself.  Dantos didn’t deserve the grouchy tone I used.  I took a breath and let it go.

“Second,” I continued, more mildly, “if I’m muttering and waving my hands in the air, I’m casting a spell.  Do not distract me—in fact, attempt to prevent distractions—while that’s going on.  You can stand in the room, or clear your throat, or leave me a note, or something similar.  But if someone comes in and starts bothering me while I’m tying together a big pile of power, he’s risking his life—maybe mine, depending on the spell, but his life is
definitely
in danger, and the spell has nothing to do with it.  Make sure it’s worth the risk.  Got that?”

“I do.”

I squeezed my temples with one hand and took a deep breath.  A headache was already sitting behind my eyes and looking for a way to move higher.  Maybe I need better posture.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized.  “It’s been a long morning and I’m worried I irked my girlfriend by being a thoughtless brute.  Or, at least, not as much fun as she expects.  Please forgive me.”

“My lord—Sire—has utter forgiveness for anything he may wish to do,” Dantos assured me.

“I’m not sure I like a blanket statement like that,” I mused.  “I’ll probably revisit it later.  But you came in here for something.  What is it?”

“May I ask, first, if it is permissible to correct Sire about matters of which Sire may not be fully aware?”

“We’re going to have to do more work on your mode of speech.  Yes.  If I’ve goofed somewhere, tell me.”

“I am not a knight.”

“I was under the impression you were a knight of the Baron of the Eastern Marches?”

“The Baron of the Fortress of the East, Warden of the Easter Marches.  Yes, Sire.  I have sent back my sword, sash, and tabard.  I am no longer in his service.”

“Ah.  Then I have the perfect job for you.”

“Sire.”

“Go find an armory.  I’ve seen more than one in this palace.  Pick out a sword and bring it to me.  Take your time, though, and make sure it’s a sword you really like.  If you can’t find one you like, find the best of the bunch and you can explain what you’d do to make it better.  Run along, now.”

“Yes, Sire.”  He finally got up from that half-kneeling position, bowed, and departed.

We’re definitely going to work on that man’s deportment
, I decided, turning back to my spells.

Lunch showed up.  Laisa, Dantos’ wife, pushed the door open by backing up against it; the tray in her hands was heavy.  She put it down on a worktable and departed, without so much as a word.  She didn’t even look at me.

Dantos could take a lesson from her.  On the other hand, he might have spoken to her about our interview.  Either way, she did a fine job of ignoring the whatever-I-am-today in the room, which suited me perfectly.

Lunch suited me, too.  Did Mary mention I hate strongly flavored foods?  Probably.  Everything was good, but—for a human palate—subtle.  It beat the daylights out of my so-called cooking.

I was almost done when I noticed a small child standing in the still-open doorway.  She might have been three.  She held a rag doll in one arm.  She wore a spell of some sort, with an invisible strand of power trailing off behind her like a floating string.  She stared at me.  I finished stacking dishes on the tray.

“Hello,” I offered.  She kept looking at me.  She didn’t run away, but she didn’t approach.  She stood there are watched me.

Well, fine.  I went back to working on my spells.  Mostly, a magical compression-jet.  While it is possible to use an Ascension Sphere for power gathering, I’ve discovered it tends to be less effective.  The Sphere draws in power from all directions, but uses a fair amount of it in maintaining itself.  The jet-fan spell, on the other hand, sucks in and spews out power in a linear fashion.  It draws in power to maintain itself from the energy stream, true, but the more it draws in, the more suction it applies.

Too complicated?  Okay.  The Ascension Sphere is a passive thing, like a solar panel.  The Jet is an active thing, like a fuel pump.

I was in the middle of tying together some of the compression section of a magic jet-fan, a fairly ticklish business, when she stepped up next to me.  She watched as I worked, apparently watching the actual spell structure rather than the markings on the floor or the gestures I made.

See, now,
that
is someone with talent for wizardry.

When I could spare the attention, I drew a line of power in the air—invisible to regular vision, but a glowing thread to anyone who could see magical forces.  With a little flip, I sent one end wriggling over her head.  She reached up and grasped it.  We played a little tug-of-war for a few moments before I released it and let her have it.  She whipped it around a bit and she finally smiled.

“Do you know how to make those?” I asked.  She shook her head, wordlessly.

“That’s okay,” I told her.  “Can you see that?” I nodded toward the power circle.  She nodded solemnly.

“Very good.  But, do me a favor?  If you want to play with something, come ask.  I’ll make something for you, like that,” I indicated the floating, magical line.  “Stay out of these things,” I instructed, indicating the circle and the jet-fan.  “They aren’t easy to make, and the spinning one might eat your fingers.  Okay?”

Again, the solemn nod.

The floating thread—the spell on her—twanged.  She ignored it.

“What’s that?” I asked, indicating the spell she wore.  She shrugged.

Sighing, I gave it a once-over.  The basic function was to keep track of the kid, obviously, with a minor secondary function of sending a signal either way.  The binding of it to the child, though, was impressive.  It was a two-stage piece of knotwork and placed deliberately to be impossible for the child to see and difficult to reach.  It also incorporated an anti-tampering feature—a bundle of energy that would burst and send a pulse down the line while the spell was being undone.  Taking it apart without alerting whoever was at the other end would require either helpers or a couple of prepared spells.

On the other hand, I didn’t see anything to prevent the brute-force approach from working.  The connection line could be severed and attached to something else.  What it needed was a constant flow of power down the line; if it were interrupted, it would alert mom… As it was, breaking the spell would require more force than the little one had on hand, as well as much more skill.  A child-proofed tracking spell!

Laisa probably studied at the Wizard’s Guild.  Doubtless, the little person would too, eventually.  Was her facility with magic what happened when children grew up with magic?  Is it like children in a multi-language household?  If the child is exposed to spellcasting and magic as a routine thing, if it’s as common in the household as the use of language, does the child grow up to use it with equal facility? 

What if the kid mispronounces something?  Or says bad words?  What’s the equivalent in magical terms?

This, I did not consider.  Still, I had some evidence parents, as always, figured out ways to cope.

The line twanged again.

“Is your mother doing that?” I asked.  She nodded.

“Maybe she wants you to come back to her?” I suggested.  She nodded.

“She probably wants you to do it now.”  Another nod.

Oh, for the love of—

I picked up the tray and balanced it on one hand, like a waiter.  I might as well bring the dishes back, too.  The little girl took my other hand and we walked down the hall, following the line of the spell-thread.  It worked both ways.

Dantos came back and waited.  I finished my latest spell and wiped at my forehead.  The mountain’s central heating was working well, and I was working hard.

He presented me with a sword.  I examined it and agreed with him it was a quality weapon.

“Tell me something, does your wife sew?”

“Yes… but not well,” he admitted, sounding worried.  “Please, Sire, do not tell her I said so.”

“Never.  Where does a man get a tabard and sash and such made?”

“There are many places in the city that can provide such.”

“Good.  Now, do you wish to serve the house of the King of Karvalen?”

“I beseech thee, my King, to this petition, that you deign to bless with the might of thy hand this sword with which thy servant desires to be girded, that it may be a defense for those who cannot defend themselves, that it may be the terror and dread of all who would act against the realm, and that it may be just and right in both attack and defense.”

Well, that answered that.  I didn’t bother to ask if he knew the oath.  Instead, I held out the sword.  He raised both hands and I placed it on his palms.

“To my King I swear loyalty and bravery.  To the Crown I swear to be just and fair as far as my mortal wisdom will allow.  At my King’s command, I swear to grant mercy, or to withhold mercy; to take life, or to grant it; to harm those from whom my King shall lift his grace; to heal and help those upon whom my King’s grace shall descend.”

“While you serve me,” I replied, “I will honor you, respect you, and ask no service of you that will bring dishonor to my house or to yours.  I will heed your councils that we may find wisdom together.  I will stand with you to defend those who cannot defend themselves.  I will be faithful in love and loyal in friendship.  I will uphold justice by being fair to all.  I will forgive when asked, that my own mistakes will be forgiven.”

I released the sword into his hands and he bowed his head.

“Rise, Sir Dantos, knight of the Royal Guard.”  He did so, saluted, and sheathed his weapon.

“What would you have of me, my King?”

“Offhand, not a thing.  Although I’d like to know how a plainsman wound up in the service of the local baron.”

Dantos’ lips twitched, possibly in repressed smile.

“Sire.  Nine years ago… do you not remember me?”

I considered him more carefully.  I thought he looked familiar the first time I saw him, but it was still the same:  Familiar, nothing more.  If I saw him nine years ago, it wasn’t ringing any bells.  I admitted as much.

“I remained here when you took me from my tribe.  I lost an arm from an accident while hunting
dazhu
, and you brought me here.  Your priests took it upon themselves to teach me of their ways every day while they made me whole again.”

“Oh,
you
.  I remember you now.  I didn’t intend for you to be stuck here. I couldn’t fix the problem right then and there and I was in a hurry.  You could have gone back anytime.  You still can, if you like.”

“With respect, my King, my place is here.  At first, I chose to remain, fearing you meant for me to stay.  No one of the plains would oppose your will.  Then your servants taught me their language, their way of fighting, their magic.  I achieved acceptance and some recognition.  Then I met Laisa… and now we have Caris.  This is where they are happy.”

“That,” I observed, “is a masterly summation.”  I didn’t say of what.  “With this in mind, I need you to work with Laisa and Mary.  My objective is to work on things—spells, enchantments, other stuff—without being distracted by the daily things.  You live here; treat me as though I were merely an honored guest.  Take care of it and try to keep me from being interrupted.  If I need anything specific, I’ll let you know.  Can we do that?”