by M. C. Planck
At the same time, it did not prevent him from making stupid decisions. Like letting his palm burn. He moved his hand away and picked up the bowl of water and ink-stone, warmed it over the flame, and finished signing the stack of orders and decrees. Even a legendary saint had paperwork to do.
He had decided to start with the least controversial decisions, work his way forward, and see how it went. Today he would bring back Saint Krellyan. It was hard to imagine how anyone could object to that.
At breakfast Cardinal Faren was as distracted as Christopher had ever seen him. Christopher, with the clarity of his rank or perhaps just self-reflection, understood. Just because Christopher could invite Krellyan back did not mean he would come back. Perhaps the saint had had enough of this world. Perhaps he was happier wherever he was now.
They went down to the remains of the Cathedral to do it. The lot sat empty, weeds peeking through the snow. Faren had moved the church headquarters into the castle, and no one else had the temerity to build on the land, at least not as long as Faren was alive.
Christopher stood in the snowy grass and chanted the words of the spell, flanked by a large crowd. Duke Istvar was there, his face struggling between skepticism and hope. The crowd wore a lot of white. All of the lesser priests had come from the neighboring counties. Only the Vicars stayed at their posts.
This spell was expensive in a way the other revival spells were not. It cost more, of course, but the cost went up based on the rank of the recipient. Such progressiveness was unusual for magic. In this case, it meant the spell was staggeringly expensive because Krellyan had been of very high rank or at least what had been considered high rank a week ago. The cost bankrupted Christopher and the White church and all of the Blue lords whom he had to beg for tael. It was not without value, however. This spell brought the dead back without the usual tax of losing a rank. Krellyan would come back as powerful as he had left.
Like with the other revival spells, a private vision opened for Christopher. He looked through a crack in the world to a formless white void where a naked man stood, bemused.
“I see you have prospered,” Saint Krellyan said, apparently unconcerned with his lack of clothes.
“I am higher rank, yes,” Christopher said. “But we still need you. Faren in particular needs you.”
“How it must have torn his heart to see me die.” Krellyan shook his head in dismay. “I can guess because I know how I felt, merely anticipating his. He was always old in my eyes, though when I was young, he was no older than I am now. But the fear did not bite until he crossed the age limit. So now you will bring me back to witness what I most dreaded. Unless, can it be that this new magic breaks that barrier?”
It was hard to argue people into coming back to life when you couldn’t lie. “No. It doesn’t change that.”
“How long have I been gone?”
“Three years. We lost Svengusta and the Vicar of Cannenberry.” Christopher realized, too late, that while he could not lie, he did not have to volunteer depressing information.
“So few,” Kreyllan mused. “I am grateful for that. You may have to remind me of that gratitude once I step across the threshold.” Christopher held out his hand. “The gratitude will be mine.” Krellyan took his hand and stepped into the real world. The crowd burst into howls of grief, all the more potent for their long distillation. The sobbing turned quickly to singing as the priests hugged each other with such frenzy that many of them fell to the ground.
Faren was already down, his head on a stone while he wept. The naked saint reached down and pulled the old man to his feet.
“We should have brought a robe,” Faren sobbed. “We didn’t know.”
Christopher hurriedly took off his own coat and wrapped it around Krellyan. It felt like a symbolic move.
“I assume I have much to learn,” Krellyan said.
Torme stood up from where he had kneeled. “The King and the Gold Apostle are dead. Saint Christopher reigns. Your return is unalloyed joy.”
Gregor climbed to his feet. “That about covers it. Welcome back.” Duke Istvar joined them, picking his way through the insensate crowd. “Well met, again, Saint Krellyan. I confess my astonishment at the power your protégé commands.”
“Not mine,” Krellyan answered. “Father Svengusta’s, I believe.”
Christopher winced. Krellyan, in making the transition, had forgotten the sad news, and now someone would have to tell him all over again.
Istvar, hero that he was, volunteered, although the quality of his rescue left something to be desired. “Can this new magic return Pater Sven?” he asked Christopher.
“No,” Christopher had to say again. “Like all other revivals, it cannot bring back the old.”
“But it could restore Duke Nordland? And his wife?” Istvar apparently had ulterior motives.
“Um. I guess so.” Christopher hadn’t actually thought about that. “But it’s expensive.”
“Now that you have reached your goal,” Istvar stated, “you will return the tax scheme to normal. In which case I assure you we will quickly raise whatever fee you demand.”
And Christopher had thought this would be the least contentious act to start with.
“My lords,” Lalania said, “there will be time for this discussion later. Let us get the Saint indoors before the cold undoes all Christopher’s good work.”
“We should have brought shoes,” Faren said, a fresh round of sobbing taking hold. “We didn’t know.”
Christopher held the next ceremony with a reduced guest list. Only his advisors and immediate family attended. Niona’s, of course, although the closest he had to family also came. Helga clung to Cannan, apparently under the illusion that he needed the support.
The next day, they were in the throne room, with the big double doors locked and barred. Lalania had come prepared with a fine soft velvet cloak. Lord Beric stood stiffly, formally armed and armored; his wife Lady Io comforted and cosseted a great eagle that rested on her arm. The bird seemed large for such a small woman to hold, but the woman was a druid and thus far sturdier than she looked. Christopher, thanks to his elevated rank, was only a little bit afraid of her now.
Gregor and his wife Disa were there as well, both wearing a somber but hopeful expression. Cannan, in contrast, was a mess. Christopher could see the fear behind the big man’s eyes, and he decided that perhaps Helga was onto something.
Though not as expensive as reviving Krellyan, the spell could hardly be called cheap. He had to borrow it from the druids with a promise to repay them at usurious interest rates. Nonetheless, it was one debt that Christopher did not regret. He called out to the lady Niona, using all of the names her mother and father had supplied, and was swamped with relief when the beautiful dark-haired druid appeared before him.
The backdrop was a forest, of course, although the lady was naked. She looked at him with surprise, and he suddenly realized that in her vision he was also naked. The spell was making the compulsion to honesty rather more obvious than necessary.
“Please come back,” he said. “It was the ring.”
“I know,” she said.
“Cannan is here. He needs you.”
“I know,” she said again. “You would not call me otherwise.” Christopher held out his hand, his heart pounding.
She looked him in the face. “Answer me true, as you must do by the terms of this magic. If you were me, would you return to this world?”
The relief came flooding back. “Without hesitation.”
She took his hand. The forest fell away behind her, replaced by the empty marble throne and the tapestries hanging on the walls. Cannan fell to his knees, his head cracking on the stone floor. The man trembled on the ground, his hands spread in supplication.
The eagle cawed loudly; Lord Beric wept openly. Lady Io was torn between joy and grief, the return of her daughter violating the terms of her faith. Lalania smoothly draped the cloak over the druid.
“Welcome back,”
she said, meaning every syllable. “You have been missed.”
Niona knelt to her husband. Christopher didn’t see what happened after that because he had to turn away. He only rejoined the conversation when Niona had hugged everyone else and finally came to him.
“Thank you,” she said. “For saving both of us.”
“Cannan did his part,” Christopher said. “He saved a dragon’s life. And mine, more times than I can count.”
She nodded, accepting it. “D’Kan told me you met some elves.”
“A bunch, actually. They’re kind of scary.”
She laughed in that earthy way of hers, and Christopher felt all his tension melt away. This one act justified everything else he had done.
“Are you still a druid? Because . . .”
“Even if I were not, it would not matter,” she interrupted. “Some bonds are stronger than faith and power. I am, as it turns out, but I remain a wife first and foremost.”
That was a nice sentiment for a man in his position.
“I know what you must be feeling,” she continued, and he was reminded that uncanny insight was another feature of her personality. “I assure you love is stronger than circumstance.”
Here she was, back from the dead with a husband guilty of her murder and a brother in the body of a bird, and she was trying to comfort him.
“We’ll know soon enough,” he told her. “Now go enjoy yourself. Bright gods but it’s good to have you back.” He hugged her and then let her go.
“You’re fired,” he said to Cannan. “The terms of our arrangement are complete. If you want a job later, you’ve got it; but for now, get the hell out.”
Everybody left, Helga chattering away as they went, Gregor laughing out loud. Only Lalania remained behind.
“I think maybe I should give them some space,” she explained. “Not that Niona would hold anything against me. But today is not the time.”
He said nothing.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I will not abandon you. Not for a king’s ransom. I would meet this woman whose mere memory has put paid to all my arts if it kills me to do so. You cannot imagine how large she has loomed in my mind.
“Unless,” Lalania continued, as if struck by a sudden thought, “you have changed your mind? This is quite literally your last chance.”
He snorted, which was all the answer that deserved.
“Fortunately, I have grown used to failure,” she teased. “You would know true suffering if Uma were in my shoes.”
“I thought returning Krellyan would be the least controversial,” Christopher said, changing the subject. “Now I have a tax revolt brewing and the lords we didn’t replace with Vicars probably expect to keep their castles. Apparently I should have started with Niona.”
Lalania laughed. “You only think that because you cannot see Lady Sigurane’s face right now. She would claw your eyes out if she could. The druids are barely holding on; Niona alive again will crack them in half.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Kalani told us the elves would rather be revived than reincarnated. And Niona said she still had her rank. They can have both. They can get revived and still be druids.”
“Perhaps,” Lalania said archly, falling back into her role of telling him when he was wrong, “but Lady Sigurane cannot be High Druid when she no longer controls who lives a second life.”
The political argument took his mind off tomorrow, which was the point.
This ceremony was private. He stood in his royal quarters, completely alone, for the first time in a very long time. Cannan had been a constant fixture, rarely farther away than the other side of a door. His oath was done, though, and now the man orbited another. No one else had the gall to intrude. Lalania had tried, heroically, but eventually she came to her senses. Christopher was not going to petition his wife with the young blonde woman standing at his shoulder.
The bard still had her hand in, choosing his clothes and trimming his hair as she did for court. He sat through the preparations in a daze, his mind elsewhere. He was desperately trying to remember who he was.
He had suffered from nightmares. Unusual in that he normally faced enough monsters during the day that they let him be at night.
The theme had been both mundane and heart-stopping; looking down at his watch and realizing he was late to pick Maggie up from work.
Never mind that he had never worn a watch and Maggie had her own car.
It had been five years. He’d vanished without a word for five years. It could have been two; he could have gone home years ago. He’d chosen to stay. It had seemed like a necessary choice at the time; his current rank and status implied it had been a successful choice; the fate of several worlds might even hinge on his having made that choice. Yet he feared looking into her eyes and trying to explain.
He had continued with his life, adapting to the world around him. What if she had done the same? What if she was already adapted to a world without him in it? If asked, he could only say he hoped she had. Nothing could compel him to wish five years of loneliness on the woman he loved. If she had found another, he could only thank the man for easing her pain.
Not that gratitude would stop him from competing for her renewed affection. He was prepared to compete quite strenuously, in fact, and now he had the resources of an entire magic-using kingdom at his disposal. He would put that up against anything an Earth-bound paramour had to offer. If she could forgive him for having chosen duty over love, then nothing less would stand in their way.
With his eyes closed, he chanted the words of the spell. It was many syllables long, and at the end curiosity won him over. He opened his eyes to see what it looked like.
The door to the hallway was gone. Instead the doorway looked into another room in another world. A room he did not recognize; it was not the house he had left. Maggie had moved, but the spell had sought her out, its ability to reach across the gulf of space apparently not impeded by a change of zip code.
He did not recognize the furniture, either. It was someone else’s furniture. That someone might merely be Maggie after five years, unwilling to sleep in the bed he had abandoned. Or it might be another man’s bed. Before his heart could stop, he spotted something familiar: a small framed painting hanging over the bed. Two birds, a crow and a robin in the same nest, a wedding gift from his artistic aunt.
She lay sleeping in the bed, alone, although the picture had already told him everything he needed to know. His knees sagged in relief, as if a great beast had released its claws and dropped from his back, to shamble away into whatever darkness it called home.
“Maggie,” he said. He could only call out; he dared not step across the threshold. It would close behind him and that would be that.
She stirred in her sleep, throwing her arm across the empty bed. His heart seized again. Guilt and fear would give him a coronary if he let it.
“Maggie,” he said, louder. “Wake up.”
She sat up slowly and stared out at him. Always a practical woman, she did not shriek, cry out, or panic, but went right to the heart of the matter. “Chris?” she asked in wonderment, “why are you wearing a sword?”
“Oh.” He looked down at his katana. If Cannan had been a shadow, the sword had been a part of his flesh. He had picked it up within days of having arrived; he had worn it, slept with it, fought with it, lived with it. The longest it had been out of his hands had been the very time he had wanted it most—the three days he lay in the King’s torture chamber, slowly dying.
He took off the sword and leaned it against the desk.
“It’s a long story,” he explained.
“Oh honey,” she said, “that doesn’t matter. Come to bed.”
His heart leaped at the invitation, and one foot moved forward of its own accord. With an act of will, he forced the other foot to remain still.
“I can’t. I mean, you have to come here. I can’t cross over without being trapped.”
She looked past him
to the great four-poster bed that he had inherited from Treywan and never bothered to change. She crinkled her nose. “A bit rustic . . . but whatever.” After a moment, she looked perplexed. “I have to actually walk? What kind of dream is this?”
“It’s not a dream,” he said. “I mean, I know it seems like one.” That had been his first assumption, too.
She slipped out of bed, wearing an old blue nightgown. It wasn’t particularly attractive, but it made his heart leap in guilty pleasure. She wasn’t dressed for company, obviously.
When she stepped across the threshold, she stopped and stared down in surprise. “The floor is cold. What an utterly superfluous level of detail.”
“I told you, it’s not a dream.” He took a step closer, cautiously, his arms open, holding his breath.
“Of course it’s a dream,” she answered. “When the insurance company paid up, I knew you were truly dead. They stalled for years because there wasn’t a body, and I let them because I wanted to believe. Everyone told me to move on, and finally I tried. And now here you are in my dreams.”
He did not get the chance to respond. She stepped into his embrace and kissed him.
“Oh Chris,” she murmured, and the world spun around him. He could not remember now which was the dream and the real. He held her, being the person he had once been. Recalling the things he had once cared for, the fears he had once battled, and the hopes he had once chased. The man he was now stood aside, looking on; then his perspective switched, and part of him flinched to see her embracing a stranger.
“The dogs,” he asked, shaking his head to banish the multiple viewpoints. “What about the dogs?” Intellectually, he knew they must have passed on in the intervening years; neither of them had been young. Emotionally, he wanted to know they had not been harmed by his vanishing.
“They were waiting outside the truck in the morning. That threw me for so long. Why didn’t they stay with your body? But they weren’t in the truck. I knew you wouldn’t have left them running loose, even if you had left me. Then the rain came. The river flooded, and they called off the search. And it was all over except for the accounting.”