by Garon Whited
“I’m not perfect, and I can’t see into the future to determine the ultimate outcome.”
“Nope.”
“Are you agreeing I’m not perfect, or disagreeing with my answer?” I asked. “A simple ‘nope’ is ambiguous.”
“No, that’s not the right answer.”
“Then I don’t know.”
“Because everyone else is imperfect, too. You can’t control them, manipulate them, influence them into being good people. You’ve done a spectacular job with the Knights of Shadow—partly, I think, because you have something constantly supervising them.”
Partly, I heard. Mary jumped. She stared at me for a moment, started to ask, changed her mind, stared for a second longer, and shook her head.
“Look, you have great power and great responsibility. I’m glad you have a sense of that responsibility. I’m pleased beyond measure you give a crap about the consequences of your actions. You have no idea how much of a relief it is to see Skynet detonate a fusion weapon and know that sort of power is in responsible, capable, even noble hands!”
“That was an accident,” I protested.
“Shut up. If it can be misused to kill people, it’s still a weapon.”
“Fair point. Shutting up.”
“You cannot be responsible for the fate of worlds. Well, you could—by destroying them. You’re powerful, but not powerful enough to put them back together.”
“Well, if there’s a sufficiently-massive asteroid belt, some comets, and sufficient time…”
“Exactly as they were.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not going to ask if you can build a planet. You can destroy suns. We’re not going to discuss how any of that works, ever.”
“Yes, dear.”
“But can you persuade everyone on the planet to be always good, noble, upright, thrifty, clean, and brave?”
“Now we’re getting into free will.”
“Exactly! Other people have it and you won’t touch it. They’re going to take whatever you do and do whatever they think will benefit them—or, if they’re exceptionally good, whatever will do the most good in the world. They’ll fail, too, because they’ll think they’re doing the right thing even when they’re not. Remember how nobody thinks of themselves as the villain?”
I didn’t answer. I am a villain. I try to be a minor one.
“At this point, is it fair to say you could be viewed as a force of nature?” she pressed.
“No, a force of nature simply exists. It doesn’t have intent. The Rethven words of arhia and arhelu—”
“Screw intent! When you show up in Karvalen, how do people react? I’m guessing they look at you like they look at the weather. They say some prayers about the tornado not hitting the house and they take the laundry in off the line.”
“Huh. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I mean, Seldar and Dantos don’t treat me that way.”
“They know you. They’re friends with Thor and have no fear of tornadoes. Everyone else rattles their beads and hopes the storm front moves on by without doing anything pyrotechnic.”
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t spend much time with… well… I hate to sound classist, but I guess you’d call them the common people. Just saying that tastes wrong.”
“Don’t change the subject. Do they—yes, the ‘common people,’—or do they not, regard you as more than just an heroic figure?”
I recalled faces as I rode Bronze through the city streets. Reverence for the King? The Lord of Shadow? Or the good sense to not stand in front of the landslide? It was something to think about, so I did.
“You may be right,” I admitted, finally.
Mary rubbed her temples and closed her eyes.
“Can I go back to my spell work?” I asked.
“No.”
I sat quietly and waited. At last, she opened her eyes and sighed.
“You want to do nice things, but they keep turning to crap, right? Or you’re afraid to do nice things lest they do so.”
“Pretty much. I worry too much, I know.”
“You act as though there’s an ultimate endgame where everyone is happy. Like the world—any world—can be turned into Utopia, where food is always plentiful, no one is sick, and everyone lives in peace and harmony. Your big worry is how you’re dragging the world away from this ideal and making it harder to achieve.”
“I guess.”
“Will it ever reach an endpoint where everything is fine and dandy?”
I hadn’t considered that. There are lots of potential versions of paradise. For much of ancient history, fertile lands, good weather, and a lack of disease was sufficient. For some post-modern technophiles, living in a virtual reality while one’s body floated in a nutrient tank would be perfect. All of them were good to those who thought them good, but would any of them ever be permanent? Sooner or later the weather changes and the soil gives out. Sooner or later some jerk with a code editor starts messing with the machinery of the world.
“Not for long,” I admitted.
“So, if there’s no endgame, what’s left?”
I was stuck for an answer until I remembered a comment by one of the gods of Karvalen:
The purpose of games is to play.
What if the game can’t be won? Or can’t be lost? What if it goes on forever? What if it does end, but the winner is based on a score, not a final victory? Do a thousand years of civilization count for more than the following age of barbarism?
“If there’s no endgame,” I said, slowly, “maybe I’ve been thinking about life all wrong.”
“Dear one, you are smart in general, brilliant in your chosen fields, and sometimes thick as bowl of oatmeal.”
“I’m clever enough to not argue with you.”
Mary scooted closer and hugged me.
“Yes. And I hope I’m saving you in different ways than you save me.”
“I don’t understand,” I admitted, hugging her in return.
“I know. Oh, how I know!”
She kissed me thoroughly and stood up.
“As much as I enjoy these peeks into your thinking, they’re draining and emotionally exhausting.”
“They are? Why?”
“Because every time we have one of these discussions, I’m forced to recognize I don’t understand you. I love you, but I don’t understand you. And I have to re-evaluate everything I thought I knew with what I now know.”
“Oh. Yes, internal correlation is something of a headache.”
“It is? Yes. Yes, it is. We’ll go with that. Sure.”
“What did I say?”
“No, I’ve had enough of this talk. You go do your spell stuff. I have some things I need to find. Warn me before you run off to the war again, would you?”
“Of course.”
She kissed me quickly but firmly before she headed off. I watched her go, puzzled about many things. At last, I shrugged off the mood and returned to my work.
Karvalen, Sunday, March 18th, Year 9
Diogenes is finally accessing the sand table without much trouble. It was more trouble than I anticipated. His changes of viewpoint are abrupt, much sharper than mine. I think it has something to do with the binary nature of his interface. When it has a command, it’s either on or off, never anywhere in between. He can scroll the viewpoint at incredible speed, making the sand a fog of vibrating particles, but he doesn’t have the ability to call up an image of a specific place. He has to scroll to it. While I can decide to open the image on the table at, say, Salacia, he has to have someone start the table up for him, then zoom out, find the location he wants, and zoom back in on it.
Next time, we’ll include some extra interface functions. I’ll rig it to turn the table on or off, at least.
While Diogenes carried on his examination of the Kingdoms of Light, I reviewed the potentially-rebellious trouble spots Seldar mentioned in Karvalen. I used the mirrors, rather than the sand table, and had some assistance from one of my bodyguards—Si
r Penza, of the Banners. He was most helpful in finding the Karvalen cities of Socara and Peleseyn. They were pretty far west, on the near edge of the Darkwood. Socara was on the coast while Peleseyn was up north, a strongpoint on the Averill river. Both were fortified, although Peleseyn’s defenses were less extensive.
I suspect Peleseyn was less than pleased with the Crown for one major reason: The rising of the Averill. Over the centuries, the Averill carved a canyon for itself. This made it not just a cold, deep river, but a nasty barrier at the northern edge of the kingdom. I asked the mountain to keep it as a river, but to also raise it, shallow out the gorge while keeping the gradient out to the western sea. The water still flowed normally, but it was now only a few feet from the upper part of the banks.
Which, of course, meant the viksagi could cross anywhere they liked, pretty much whenever the liked, without too much fuss or bother.
True, most of the more violent of the viksagi clans made their way to Stadius, but there were still more incidents between our peoples than before. Fewer invasions, though, since we were doing a lot more trading. If we examined it mathematically, the loss of life and property was diminished by at least ninety percent. Unfortunately, instead of a single, massively-bloody conflict every generation or so, it was now a periodic, bordering on persistent thing about stolen pigs, stolen women, and occasional murders.
Lissette already sent a conclave of the law—a curiate—to Peleseyn to settle these matters. It wasn’t perfect. The viksagi have their own system of justice and don’t take kindly to being detained and tried under ours. There have been some tense negotiations. It doesn’t help that the negotiations have to happen with every little town or clan or whatever. The viksagi don’t have a central government, just the occasional giant conclave for eating, drinking, talking, and whatever passes for governing.
Things are better than before, but they’re still not good. Peleseyn was especially unhappy, but at least I had some idea why. Socara was more of a mystery. I didn’t see any reason they would chafe under the Bright Queen, but Seldar said they were unhappy and I believed him.
So I snooped around, spied on the castle structures in each city, and considered whether to go with the fountains of fire or the rods from god. Both structures had fountains, but none of them seemed well-placed for the visual impact I wanted. Pity. I did like the idea of a huge, flaming eye looking at people. It makes an impression.
Oh, well. The rods from god were more traditional, anyway.
Diogenes did a nice job on the spears. I specified wicked-looking and he delivered. They were a heavy, steel alloy, not quite black but very dark, with a collection of wicked barbs behind the main head. They were somewhat larger than I expected, though. I could throw one. Torvil and Kammen could throw one. Most of the Knights of Shadow could at least heft it and use it as a weapon. Anyone else would be happy to set it against a charge, perhaps, or use it to brace a door.
I opened a brute-force gate—a small one—and dropped the first spear through. The guidance spell made sure it reached its target. The penetrator spell helped it go through the roof. The illusion spell made it burn for a few moments, just to make a point, before the fiery light settled into the engraved message to make it glow like the One Ring on a lava flow. The message was short:
“Don’t.” (Literally, tunonvi, meaning, “You don’t want to do that.”)
Socara and Peleseyn each had one delivered, gravity express, straight into the receiving room of their respective palaces. Once I finished, Sir Penza begged leave to ask a question.
“I’m tempted to deny your request,” I told him, “simply because of the way you asked. Want to try again?”
“My lord, may I inquire?”
“Much less grovel-y. I’m pleased. Yes, you may.”
“I see the engraving upon each spear left much of it unmarked. Would not a more elaborate message be of more utility?”
“Possibly, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t need to be longer. When they hear what happened—a spear from the sky descended into the palace, through wood and stone, to embed itself in the foyer—will they know who sent it?”
“Without question.”
“Put yourself in their shoes. –hold it,” I corrected, looking up at him and holding up one hand. “I meant, imagine yourself in their place. The Demon King just dropped a personal message into your palace and told you ‘Don’t do it’ in a direct and, since he didn’t show up personally to deliver it, somewhat gentle fashion. How do you interpret his message?”
“I have no way of knowing what it is he refers to,” Sir Penza replied, nodding. “Whatever guilt lies on my conscience, I must now consider anew.”
“And when you find out the other potential troublemaker received the same message?”
“I believe your message will be taken to heart, my lord.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll save me from ripping a few out.”
“On that subject, my lord?”
“You have hearts you want to rip out?”
“Not precisely. It is said you are the master of life and death, the one who can cut the thread of a man from the Ribbon of Destiny. I would ask your advice.”
I started putting mirrors back in their mountings on the walls, thinking dark thoughts.
“All right, but I’ll want you to explain some theology to me afterward.”
“My lord?”
“I want to know what you think. I know what I think. I’ll ask questions to find out what you’ve been taught and if it’s been correctly communicated. If it hasn’t,” I reassured him, “it certainly won’t be your fault. I’ll have to go through the holy books and maybe do some editing. Don’t sweat it.”
“As you say, my lord.”
“So, what do you need advice on?”
“I have an idea for an enchantment, but I… I find my skills are not quite up to the task.”
“Do you have the spell?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Show me.”
So we sat down while Diogenes continued with the sand table. Sir Penza showed me his idea.
The spells enchanted into most swords are fairly simple. Unlike most heavy blades, Knights of Shadow sharpen their swords to as fine an edge as possible. The enchantment is a fast-acting upgrade of a typical repair function, focused intently around the edges. This keeps them about as sharp as a good kitchen knife. Once enchanted into the steel, that finely-honed edge is locked in as the “correct” shape of the metal. Blunt it, take a notch out of it, scratch it, whatever—the enchantment tries to “repair” the sword back into the original “correct” shape. Another common spell is one to help hold the metal together, hardening and toughening it, making it much harder to break. The two work pretty well together, once they’re synchronized with each other. They have to be, or the toughening enchantment would resist the repair enchantment.
Penza’s idea was to project a field of force around the edge of the blade. Much like the reverse of a medical spell—the one I used for welding flesh and bone together—this would seize on any matter near the edge and attempt to pull it apart.
“My thought was born in seeing a rope cut,” he told me. “A single swipe of the blade severed the rope with ease. I wondered if it would be so simple, so easy, if the rope were slack, lying on the ground. Many evenings have I discussed these matters with others of my Order, but it was Sir Relcar of the Shield who suggested I start with the flesh of clay spell. It works well in reverse, to part flesh, but what does one do with armor? Or a door, or stone pillar? A new spell was needed, and I believe I have one sufficient for this purpose. Yet, it does not merge well with the magic of a Shadow’s blade.”
“Does it work when you cast the spell on your sword?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“It just doesn’t want to behave when you try to enchant it.”
“That is correct.”
“Well, you’ve already got two spells in your sword. Other knights probably have more. Am I right?”
>
“Some few of exceptional enchantment skill have three or four, my lord. For the most part, these two, or variants of them, are all one will find.”
“My thought is you’ve got a conflict in there, somewhere. One or the other enchantment is interfering with a component of your new pull-apart matrix.” I rummaged around in the scrying room supplies. “Here we go. Show me your pull-apart spell and we’ll see if we can figure out why it won’t play well with others.”
He walked me through the spell. I liked it. It was power-hungry, though, since it directed forces at the target. The amount of energy required to make a difference by trying to pull apart steel armor was unlikely to be available in worlds of lesser magical field strength. I didn’t see any reason it wouldn’t work in Karvalen, though.
On the other hand, I thought there was room for improvement. The separation spell worked as a radiant field from the edge of the blade, affecting everything in a axial cylinder segment. It affected anything within an inch or two, with the strength of the effect increasing with proximity. But blades don’t cut sideways; they cut best straight in. By altering the directional component to the spell, the effect would be concentrated on a much smaller area, thus affecting less mass and fewer chemical bonds, vastly improving the effect.
We worked together on it for the better part of an hour. It went quickly. After all, he did most of the work already. All I did was touch it up and edit a bit. By the time we were done, he could cast the spell on a stick and put a narrow gash in the stonework with every strike. It wasn’t a deep gash because it was too narrow. The stick was too wide to fit in it.
“A sword’s edge will bite deeper,” I assured him. “That will let the effect reach deeper. I won’t be surprised to find you cut a man in half without feeling it hit.”
“I am gratified, my lord. Yet, the enchantment?”
“That’s trickier. We’ve got your spell cleaned up and slimmed down, but incorporating it into a three-way enchantment isn’t simple. I can see how it conflicts with the toughening enchantment—one pulls apart, the other pulls together, and we’re trying to mount both generators in the same object. That’s going to take some doing. However,” I added, “I have a workaround.”