Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  I watched my great-granddaughter stand in front of Bronze and look almost straight up as Bronze looked straight down. Tymara was utterly delighted to meet a magic horse “just like her own little one.” It was the best part of my visit. Bronze was very pleased to meet Tymara, but didn’t know what to make of the miniature horse. The miniature horse didn’t know what to make of her, either.

  “The Mother mentioned your steed returned to you,” Tianna said, quietly, while Tymara held up and introduced her figurine to Bronze. With a little effort, it could have crawled into a nostril.

  “She’s right.”

  “I would like to know more about this, if I may.”

  “Later?”

  “Later,” she agreed, as Tymara tried to climb up Bronze’s tail. Bronze helped by gently wrapping her in the wires and lifting her.

  My leavetaking was delayed. Instead, we made a lap around the city wall. The city is only about four miles across, or a little over, and an almost perfect circle. Overall, it’s only about seven or eight miles all the way around. The street running along the inside the city wall is easily wide enough for Bronze to weave through traffic, even at high speed.

  The alarm-bell sound of Bronze’s hooves may have helped.

  Tymara stood in front of me, leaning forward into a mass of wire mane, laughing and shrieking the whole way like a giddy siren. Her mother used to do the same thing. It’s like they don’t need to breathe. Is it a fire-witch thing, a family thing, or a little-kid thing? I have no idea how they do it. Maybe they have hidden air intakes to go with their rocket-exhaust hair.

  Not only did she scream in glee, her hair streamed fire behind her and right into my face. Firebrand and Bronze both found it amusing for different reasons. Firebrand finds anything with fire amusing. Bronze thinks I should plan this sort of thing better. I should have known she was going to be delighted, and therefore her hair was going to ignite.

  It’s a good thing the Lord of Shadow is also known as a God of Fire to the sea-people, and the Lady of Flame likes me. I’ve had my face torched off before and didn’t care for it. As they say, don’t try this at home.

  Once more at the Temple of Flame, I handed Tymara down to Tianna amid cries of “Again! Again!”

  “We will, but not today.”

  “Do I get a turn?” Tianna asked. I blinked at her in surprise while Tymara wrapped herself around one of Bronze’s forelegs. Bronze took it well, but made it clear I would have to deal with her.

  “I’m sure you can have one just as soon as we have time,” I agreed. “I didn’t know you wanted to.”

  “See what you learn when you spend time with us?”

  “I sense a gentle reprimand.”

  “Merely an observation.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll go for a run again when I can.”

  “Come back soon!” Tymara demanded, still hugging one of Bronze’s front legs. I’m not sure which of us she was talking to.

  Bronze nosed her hair and nibbled it a little. Tymara giggled. Tianna bit her lips to keep quiet. I could tell she had questions, but she could tell I wasn’t going to take time to answer them.

  Eventually, we made our way to the Temple of Shadow. The main doors are in a cubical, block-like building. The main temple looks like a partially-buried sphere a small distance away. To one side, there is a large, empty lot. Today, it wasn’t empty. Upwards of fifty men wore the black armor and were busily beating the crap out of each other in a grand melee. From the looks of it, the objective was to kill one of the three guys holding the staff with the banner on it. Three-way fights are always awkward. We stopped to watch for a little bit.

  I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating. The Knights of Shadow know they can heal or repair almost any wound. If it doesn’t kill you, it’s generally nothing more than an inconvenience. They view wooden weapons as children’s toys. Their idea of a practice sword is not sharpening it. The idea of practice without risking wounds is, to them, a silly notion. You have to be prepared to suffer on the battlefield, so you learn about pain with the rest of your practice, and that sharpens your skills faster.

  I don’t fully agree. I mean, I see their point, yes. They’re not wrong. I don’t know that they’re fully right, but they’re not wrong.

  Other Knights of Shadow surrounded the practice area, all of whom were obviously prepared to minister to the wounded. Bronze and I got a few looks, but nobody broke from their formation. They all stayed on point, prepared to do their jobs. The rest of the spectators barely noticed us, paying attention to the brutality going on in front of them. Even those who glanced our way didn’t do more than bow.

  Strangely, everyone took Bronze’s appearance in stride. I suppose they had a little foreshadowing when the Black attended the sermon. My altar ego might even have spilled the beans regarding her resurrection. Or maybe word already made it to the Temple about our little outing around the city. Pick any or all of the above. What made me happiest was people utterly failing to drop what they were doing just because I passed by.

  I dismounted and we walked in through the main doors, down the steps, along the hall, and up the other steps. I still wonder how Bronze manages stairs. Horses don’t like going down stairs and I can tell she doesn’t like it, either. She does it anyway, and quite well, though. I suppose it has something to do with being more than a horse.

  Come to that, is she a horse at all? She wears the body of a horse statue and it seems the most comfortable vessel for her spirit, but, when it comes right down to it, she’s now an incorporeal entity possessing a body. On Apocalyptica, there’s a garage with a car in it she can wear like a suit of clothes.

  Oh, my. There’s a garage full of vehicles, from the Grumbler to a motorcycle to a supersonic airplane. Can she treat the whole garage like a closet full of different outfits? What shall we wear today? Where are we going? Ah, then something in a four-wheel-drive, I think…

  Of course, we can go a step farther and say we’re all incorporeal entities possessing bodies. A human is a bundle of flesh and bone with a spirit inside it. If you put that spirit in the body of something else, does that change who it is? T’yl used to be a human and now he occupies an elf-body. It doesn’t make him an elf.

  I think the difference between him and Bronze is a matter of degree. Bronze can change bodies at will, by an act of will, to become a car, a crane, a cyborg horse, or—I presume—a plane, train, or automobile. That doesn’t change who she is, only the body she’s wearing.

  So what is she? A horse? Maybe she was, but now, I don’t think so. She’s an animating force, a spirit. Anima? Animus? Something like that. A vital force, animating inanimate matter. I suppose I’ll say she’s an anima, but I’ll probably go on thinking of her as “my horse.” I know it’s a shorthand way of referring to her and so does she.

  The main temple sanctuary wasn’t in formal use, but a dozen or so people were inside, praying. Bronze went down the aisle and stopped next to the raised, central platform. Bronze parallel parked and I dismounted on it. It took me a minute to dig out the holy charcoal and prepare the deiphone—the brazier of smoke signals. While I did this, people wrapped up their prayers and quietly exited the sanctuary. I didn’t tell them to, but I appreciated the consideration.

  At the doors, three large men took up station. I saw sigils of the Blades, Shields, and Banners, one for each.

  Ah. My bodyguards have arrived. Lovely.

  Once the room was clear, they closed the doors and waited outside.

  Okay, I admit it. There are times I like having people around to help. Usually, it’s when there are other people to deal with.

  With Firebrand to superheat the charcoal and provide a cut on the back of my hand, I flicked blood into the glowing brazier and waited while the smoke formed a face.

  “How’s life on the energy planes?” I asked. He blinked at me as his gaze focused.

  “Oh, not so bad. Still kinda tired, though. I thought you were going to see about sending m
e a power-up?”

  “I thought about it, but I ran into a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion how,” I admitted. “I get the basic idea—psychic energies attuned to you somehow provide you with your version of vital force. Got it. I need a way to tune an artificial power source to emit something vibrating in tune with you.”

  “Hmm,” the face frowned, thoughtfully. “Magical and psychic energy aren’t the same thing, although they are related. Both are subject to manipulation through the mechanism of consciousness. If we assume they’re related in much the same way electricity and magnetism are, as a working hypothesis, it should be possible to use a source of magic as a psychic power source.”

  “We’ve got electromagical transformers. Pumping out power isn’t the issue. Tuning it is. How do I tell the difference between you and any other energy-state being? How do I address it to you? Or, more fundamentally, how do I use magical energy—or any sort of energy—to produce psychic waves? And there better be a way to do it that doesn’t involve me with electrodes on my head, thinking religious thoughts, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “You’ve got Me there,” he admitted. “The problem, from a research viewpoint, is you don’t even have a way to confirm the presence of these waves. Like early electricity experiments didn’t know they were producing radio waves until the technology was much more developed.”

  “It’s a problem,” I agreed.

  “I think I have a solution.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Wear your hair longer,” he advised. “We get a crystal and I attune it. Once its structure is set to resonate with me, you can put a detection spell on it.”

  “I can?”

  “You have spells to detect psychic phenomena, do you not?”

  “Well… I hadn’t thought of it quite like that. I can detect psychic-viewing scrying sensors. I can also set up a passive listening spell to detect psychic emanations from specific sources… yes, I guess I can.”

  “So I set up a crystal tuned to my pattern. You set up a generic spell to detect any psychic emanations. You experiment with a generator until the spell tells you you’re putting out significant psychic energy. Then all you have to do is tune it until the crystal reacts.”

  “What do you mean, ‘reacts’?”

  “Um…” he trailed off, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I’ve never done it before. I think it should glow, but it might emit a tone as it resonates. I’ll be interested in the result.”

  “Wonderful. Another unpredictable quasi-divine relic.”

  “You don’t like the cloak?”

  “I love the cloak, but it’s the principle of the thing. All right, I’ll talk to Diogenes about a methodical search for a suitable transformer core. Ruthenium works for magic. Maybe there’s something else on the periodic table that works for psychic energy.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Now that we have what you want out of the way, can we get to what I want?”

  “I live to serve, O Master of Shadows.”

  “You don’t get much practice with sarcasm in the astral realms, do you?”

  “No, not so much. Why?”

  “No reason. But I hear the Lord of Light is actually the Lord of Artificial Happiness Drugs and his religion is the cartel. What have you heard?”

  “Nothing about that, but give me a moment to scan the celestial frequencies.”

  “No problem.” I sat down on the altar and worked some healing magic on my hand. With that done, I pulled on my gauntlets again, still waiting.

  “Here we go,” said the face of smoke. “Yes, that seems to be the case, but it’s something his priesthood is doing, not him, not directly.”

  “He’s not?”

  “Nope. He’s still under a ban, remember? But he might have told them how, I suppose. I’m pretty sure the rest of the celestial menagerie wouldn’t care that he’s doing it.”

  “They wouldn’t?”

  “No. Remember, we’re a bunch of disembodied wavelengths of celestial will, not material beings concerned with earthly pleasures.”

  “Not just different perspectives, but radically different perspectives. Got it. Sorry, my empathy for divine beings isn’t what it should be.”

  “Very true.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Considering your history, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Ouch.”

  “So, yes, different viewpoint. Up here, they’re just thinking it’s good business. Every god has a shtick, you know. One helps harvests, another brings rain, another heals children free of charge—the usual stuff. People worship and are rewarded for their worship.”

  “I understand.”

  “The Lord of Light—his priesthood, anyway—isn’t providing a material service. He’s shooting for an emotional addiction. He’s promising happiness. Not healing, not health, not wealth, not love—happiness. Beggars are still beggars, but they’re happy. From what I gather, a man being burned at the stake would be happy if the Lord of Light’s priests hit him with a bliss-whammy.”

  “You said something about emotional addiction,” I pressed.

  “Remember those rat experiments? The ones where the researchers wired electrodes to the brain’s pleasure center?”

  “Vaguely. The psych guys set it up so the rat could press a lever and get a jolt in the pleasure center. As I recall, the rats pressed the reward lever all the time. That one?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” he confirmed. “They didn’t eat or drink, just pressed the lever until they died. Except the lever, here, is attending a worship service. They don’t control the feed—they just get a reward when the priests dole it out. But they do dole it out if you chant and sing and pray for long enough.”

  “How is this different from a standard religious ceremony? Don’t people walk away feeling better?”

  “Yes, but this isn’t a revitalization of the human spirit or an affirmation of life or even a feeling of fellowship and community. This is a direct effect to create an artificial feeling, much like heroin. I doubt it’s physically addictive, but it’s almost certainly psychologically addictive.”

  “Which makes it easy to say, ‘Go do this, or you don’t get your fix.’ Am I right?”

  “It’s more subtle, diplomatic, and tactful than that, I’m sure. I’m sure they use phrases like, ‘the will of the Lord of Light,’ ‘prove one’s faith,’ and ‘rewards for those who follow the path of light’.”

  “But, essentially…?” I pressed.

  “But, essentially, yeah, that’s probably how it works.”

  “You don’t know for certain?”

  “I’m not welcome in his Temples. Remember how Amber couldn’t manifest her fire-presence in my Temple during the urban fighting in Karvalen? I was willing to make an exception, but it was against the rules.”

  “It’s a generic thing for everybody up there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” I lay down on the altar and put my hands behind my head. “I don’t like this.”

  “Me, either. It’s clever, and it worries me. All the Lord of Light is doing is offering mankind happiness—uncritical, uncaring bliss.”

  “Mankind,” I stated, “isn’t meant to be uncritically happy. We’re supposed to fight, to overcome obstacles, to use our gifts of reason and ingenuity, to rise above our base natures and to better ourselves. To be forever happy without earning it is to fall into the trap of the lotus-eaters and die.”

  “I agree, but most people don’t share our view. If they can be happy without fighting for it, they’ll take it.”

  “I’m tempted to say they need to be exterminated to better the breed, but that’s my darker nature coming to the fore.”

  “Mine, too. My bigger concern is how he’s pulling it off.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard,” I reasoned. “Rats had the same effect with a few volts. It shouldn’t have a big power requirement.�
��

  “No, it shouldn’t. My question was in regard to the many-times-a-day miracle. It’s not registering up here as a miracle.”

  “That’s right,” I recalled. “He’s got some sort of sanction on him. Could he do a minor miracle? Answer prayers, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, but there’s also a limit on how much power he can use in the world at once. It also requires real, concerted effort by his priests before he’s permitted to respond.”

  “So, blissing out a thousand followers at every religious service is outside his present scope?”

  “Exactly. I don’t know how he’s doing it.”

  “Meaning, he’s gone and done something clever, which makes you grumpy because you haven’t figured it out.”

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “Long experience.”

  “What I think,” he went on, “is if he’s got his priests doing it, then it’s a ritual spell, not a miracle. Not that the faithful—or the addicts—will know or care.”

  “Something has to be done about this guy,” I muttered.

  “Again, I agree.”

  “How?”

  “Good question.”

  “You’re not a terribly useful god, are you?”

  “I have none of the three omnis. The disclaimer is right there on the label. Take it up with my lawyer.”

  I muttered and grumbled and thought.

  “Any ideas?” he prompted.

  “I’ve only been thinking about it for thirty seconds.”

  “I know how fast you think.”

  “Slowly?”

  “What’s twenty times thirty-six?”

  “Seven hundred and twenty. Why?”

  “You answer instantly and still have to ask ‘why’?” he demanded, then visibly had a realization. “Ah. Right. Okay, I think I get it. Take your time.”

  “Why ask me, anyway?” I complained. “I’m the quasi-mortal, here. You’re the celestial entity. You know him better than I do. Why aren’t you coming up with something brilliant?”

  “I’ve only been thinking about it for a minute.”

  We fell silent for a little while. I felt Bronze’s amusement. Arguing with myself doesn’t get me anywhere.