by Garon Whited
The pointy-bearded wizard also carried a case. He put it down and put a pentagonal crystal on top of it—the key.
“Here. Take it and go.”
Since they were still edgy and obviously armed, I moved slowly, took the case, and went.
Outside, I climbed Mount Bronze and seated myself. With the box in front of me, I examined it and the key. Using it was fairly obvious to anyone with magical sensitivity. I put the pentagonal crystal in the recessed spot on the lid and the spell disarmed. I opened the box.
The gems—one large, two small—and a collection of snipped wires met my inquiring look. The sphere was cut through, divided neatly into hemispheres. The eye-tricking geometry no longer worked. Then again, the crystals were all larger than I expected and the sheer amount of material didn’t look as though it would fit inside the sphere. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
Somehow, I doubted a repair spell was going to fix this. It can fix things with three mundane spatial dimensions, but it’s not so good with trans-dimensional engineering and enchantments.
I closed the case and slipped it into one of the Bronze’s saddleboxes. We made a couple of stops on the way out of town, mostly for food, camping gear, and for new, unenchanted crystals.
I went through the motions on autopilot, more concerned about what I was going to find when I looked into the gems.
Along about sunset, I was sitting on the mine road, considering the mortal remains of three thieves. I already ate them, so summoning their spirits back to chew them out was out of the question. As for the wizards in the magical pawnshop, I don’t know for certain they opened up the sigil. A thief with an enchanted knife could have opened it up like an avocado. Then again, a wizard could have been probing around in it to see what it was and broken an osmium wire. It’s a brittle metal, after all, and some of them were quite fine. Break the object, break the enchantment, and suddenly the multidimensional object explodes. Could happen that way.
It’s a terrible thing, not knowing who to blame.
When we came back to the mine, I put my stuff down, locked the door, and frowned at the collection of bright things in the front room. My original visitor looked rather solid and glowed like a full-on light bulb. Now we had more visitors, a whole constellation of them, ranging through most of the color spectrum.
I’m willing to adopt a hungry kitten—assuming a kitten would have anything to do with me. Make it a puppy.—but I don’t intend to adopt an entire litter of the things. Moreover, my pet glowing thing kept moving, bumping aside the others as they crowded around the divinity dynamo. Clearly, everyone wanted some of the free food.
I’m interested in the life cycle of a glowing ball of light. I drew an ellipse on the floor and charged it as a containment diagram. It was trickier than a standard containment diagram in that it had to allow magical energy in to power the dynamos, but still contain the forces produced. I borrowed some of the wiring from an Ascension Sphere for it, as well as my angelic containment diagram. Once I completed it, I relocated my dynamos from the table to the focal points. Since my repair spell had the broken dynamo in working order again, I charged it, started it spinning, and let them both run inside the ellipse.
None of the bright things liked this at all. They crowded the diagram for a bit, but lost interest and floated away through the walls. One floated toward me, went cleanly through my midsection, and departed. I was unharmed, aside from the macho eek sound a little damage to what I might call my dignity. I didn’t feel a thing.
Immaterial beings can be nerve-wracking.
The original sphere of light, however, continued to shine brightly while waiting. Patience. I like it. I wish I had more of it.
When the rest were gone, I built an airlock-type arrangement out of a lesser conjuring circle. Connected to the ellipse, it would allow my shining guest to enter or exit. I gently guided my guest into the lesser circle, closed it to the outside, opened it to the inside. It—He? She?—drifted in, wandered along the inner perimeter of the ellipse, and returned to the lesser circle. I reversed the process to let it out. It floated out, paused, and went into the lesser circle again.
For several seconds, I waited. It didn’t do anything. I cycled the circle again to let it in, then cycled it again, quickly, before the ball could float in. I repeated the process twice more, then waited. Little licks of light appeared on its surface, reminding me of solar prominences in teeny-tiny scale. Clearly, it was trying to operate the circle.
I gave it a hand, gently guiding it through the simple process. It seemed happy with the result and went into the ellipse.
Well, if it wants out, it knows how… in theory. If not, it’ll have to wait until I help it.
It floated around inside the ellipse, trailing tiny little tendrils along the inner edge like a radioactive angora sweater. It also examined the dynamos in similar fashion. It stayed on the floor, though, not exploring the upper arc of the ellipse or the tops of the dynamos. It clearly didn’t pay any attention to gravity, so why did it stay at floor level? Mystery after mystery. Maybe I need a naturalist. Or an occultist.
With him—it, her, whatever—sorted out, I turned my attention to the busted sigil. The key point to my whole divinity dynamo setup was to route power to my altar ego, presumably still inside the sigil. I probed the gems with all the nicety and finesse I could muster. While his signature was still there, it was a fingerprint, an imprint, not the full, executable copy he originally placed inside. I think—I don’t know, but I think—the multidimensional container and wiring were involved in that, somehow. The gems are obviously tuned to him, but whatever it was that made him more than a snapshot of himself is gone.
On the plus side, I didn’t throw a temper tantrum. Go me.
Next on my list of things to check was all of the energy planes.
The theory runs like this. If an entity makes an impression on the energy planes, it exists. The pattern can degrade, I’m sure, resulting in the death of the entity, but if it’s fed—whether through a gem with a spiritual imprint or through direct psychic transfer from worshippers—it grows in strength. So, even if my altar ego isn’t in the busted sigil, he may still exist in the energy planes. If he’s strong enough, he may be doing whatever the equivalent of foraging for food is. If he’s not… well, he’s got no worshippers, so he’s kind of doomed. This current copy, anyway. The rest of him is fine. Will be fine. Won’t be affected.
If I can find him, though, I can summon him. I summoned an angel, once. I know the spells. I should be able to rip the soul out of some poor sucker and stuff my altar ego into the still-living body, at least temporarily. If I can manage it, then we can feed him food and let him grow directly on the vitality of a living body. While he gets stronger, I can build more dynamos and get them ready for his ascension from his temporary sojourn into mortality.
If I can find him.
Such was my thinking as I set up my mirror and my Ring of Spying. The ring’s gate had a perfect identifier in the central gem of the former sigil, so I didn’t anticipate any false hits. And, sure enough, there were no false hits. I sent my micro-gate seeking through the local energy planes, looking for him. No soap. Wherever he is, whatever became of him, he’s beyond my reach.
Why not? I can think of more than one reason. He might be adapting to the local energy plane in ways that make him different enough to not register. Unlikely, but possible. He might be too weak—his signal might be at too low an amplitude to detect. Metaphorically, he isn’t loud enough for my form of radio to pick up. This method is an improvisation, not a well-researched, dedicated spell specific to the purpose. Or, of course, he might simply be dead and gone.
This displeases me in strange ways.
I’ve lost so many things. Oh, technically they’re still to come, not lost… provided I play my destined part like a good little cog and don’t complain. But they’re not here, not now. Tymara… Tianna… Amber. The Big Three. The Fabulous Four. Tort! Tamara, Lissette, Mary… Beltar
, Dantos, Kelvin… Raeth and Bouger. Even my pet rock. They’re all in the future, a possible future, and one I either have to die to bring into being or have to avoid screwing up or have to force into being. True, I might not have any choice about it, but the fact I can’t prove it one way or the other is enough to make me frightened on their behalf. They may never be. And, right now, they are not. I can’t talk to them, can’t go visit. So, to me, I’ve lost them.
Now I’ve lost someone strangely similar to me. He’s… not me, but he’s like a twin brother, I guess. I’ve suspected he was damaged, but I never wanted to think about him being dead. Not all of him, of course; only the piece he sent with me. Now he’s in limbo, like all the others, as a possibility, a reflection in the pool of the future, a dream of what may come to pass.
I feel lonely.
I sat there, regarding the corpses in the shade of the mountain, until the first faint prickle of sunset started. I picked myself up and hurried into the mine.
All right, situation report. I have my gates sorted out again. My air cannon was largely untouched, aside from some minor knocking about and one broken support. It’s set up again. My new crystals are charged or charging, and I plan to buy more in Sarashda next time I go to town for supplies. The mine is deep enough to hold many more crystals, but I thought I was proceeding at a good speed. Apparently, I need to finish this as quickly as possible to reduce the chance of random idiots kicking down the door to my lair.
Aside from the sigil, everything is repaired and working. Well, my temper is still a bit frayed, and possibly my soul, but I can’t cast a repair spell on either of them!
I did try a repair spell on the sigil. It pulled itself together, at least. There are no leftover bits of wire, and I can’t find any loose ends inside it. But the eye-tricking spatial weirdness isn’t there. It’s an intricate, spherical framework made of two kinds of wire, absolutely crammed inside—and that’s without the gems. There wasn’t room. Whatever made it a sigil is no longer there. It’s like breaking an enchanted sword. You can hammer the pieces back into a blade, but if you don’t understand the magic, all you get is a sharp piece of metal.
I’ve got a lot of internal anger and no one to vent it on. Looks like I’m going to sit in the dark and eat my feelings, tonight.
Strangely enough, this might not be as bad an idea as it sounds. Aside from grabbing some gold, maybe I should spend the night in my headspace, duking it out with some of my under-demons. The little ones are still being shredded into dust by the Coping Mechanism, but maybe it’s time to find a larger demon and beat it to death.
Is my temper once of those under-demons? Maybe. If so, maybe using one to kill others is a good idea.
Tauta, 16th Day of Varinskir
There’s a trick to dealing directly with under-demons. Take them on one at a time and rest up in between. It also helps if you have an empathic bond to an independent piece of your soul and a telepathic link to a vampire-filtered dragon-spirit who likes to kill things. If you don’t have the last two, get a good therapist. And never let your personal demons gang up on you.
The good news is I took a mental health night and am probably a more stable personality therefore. The bad news is, “more stable” is not the same thing as “sane.” It’s like pulling a bucket of water from the sea. The sea is shallower—technically. Judging from the ocean of insecurities, guilts, fears, angers, hatreds, and other psychological unpleasantness down there, I’m not going to finish anytime soon.
I wish I knew how fast these things came into being. Then again, maybe it’s better if I don’t. It could lead to despair.
Meanwhile, in the material realm, there’s a section of the mine where the floor slopes down into water. There are other sections, of course, where shafts go straight down, too, complete with old braces and beams where pulleys once hauled up ore. But the slope was what I wanted. Fighting with the horrible things in my own mind leaves me feeling soiled, even stained, despite the fact—I hope!—I’m actually polishing up my soul, even if only a little bit. Or is this like removing debris from a wound? By killing my under-demons, am I cleaning out a wounded place so my soul can start to heal? Or grow, if it never was too large to begin with. Is my soul more like a wounded body, or a plant? It’s hard to come up with a good metaphor when I can’t even define what a soul is.
I took a late-night bath in the water, scared the tiny fish, and felt somewhat better. Then, of course, it was time for my sunrise shower. Timing is not often my friend.
Come the morning, we went into Sarashda again. I nodded at one or two warriors who nodded at me, presuming I’d at least seen them at the warmeet. Several were familiar faces, probably people I fought with.
I spent a good portion of the morning finding rock shops. I didn’t need gems, just crystals. Most of the ornamentation and decoration around here runs more toward carvings and patterns, not bling, but they do still have a use for bright, glittery things. Jewelry tends to have a single stone with designs in metal around it. A floor is likely to have tiles. But a wall? Especially one where it can catch the light from a window and scatter it around the room? Or backing some other light source? Polished tiles are good there, true, but the more expensive arrays are often polished crystal, with the cut and color forming a mosaic. The trick was finding someplace to supply such things. It took some searching and some questioning—that’s how I know so much about the architecture of illumination—but we did find a supply.
With crystals in saddleboxes, we then found a place to eat. I’ll eat my own cooking, since I’m immortal, but I prefer others’. Sarashda has an extensive selection of eateries, ranging from a two-wheeled cart selling fruit to open-air cafes specializing in some sort of tea-with-calories, to places reminiscent of Bajah’s House of Ten Thousand Pleasures. I selected an al fresco diner when I saw them serving food.
The lady serving wore not much at all and seemed entirely willing to run across town to fetch me anything I wanted. As it was, she was busy enough simply bringing me food and drink. She found it unusual, but not too strange. Warriors are reputed to have voracious appetites, or so Firebrand told me.
I paid and offered a gratuity on the theory that showing gratitude in a monetary fashion is seldom an insult. She accepted the gift with some sadness, I think. I don’t understand their customs.
As I headed for Bronze, a nearby lady stopped leaning on a wall and approached. She was tall, about five-ten, with black hair, deep brown eyes, and a strong, almost masculine jaw. More handsome than pretty, I’d say, but I grew up in a sexist society and sometimes it shows. She wore a suit of fine, steel scales, all colorfully enameled but many of them badly scratched. The design of the small, colored scales was less abstract than most, but the scratches made it hard to make out. A sword at an angle, overlaying a shield, probably. Her weapons were a straight sword, a bit heavier than a saber and about as long, plus a buckler with a bladed rim.
She stopped three feet away from me and made a gesture. One hand, palm down, started at center-of-mass, rotated toward her, up, and out toward me as though presenting a gift. I’d seen it before at the warmeet, but it didn’t seem wise to admit ignorance. Of course, now I was stuck with trying to remember the appropriate response…
Ah. Right. Simply return the gesture. I did so.
“I am Leisel.”
“I am Al,” I replied, remembering the customs on introductions. Hers was much more polite than Tobar’s.
“I saw you at the warmeet.”
“I seem to recall seeing you there, as well. Forgive me if I don’t remember exactly. There were a lot of new people to me.”
“I am pleased to be remembered at all. I spoke with your friend, Hazir, about applying to be your student, but he did not know if you were taking students. Your work with Osric was impressive.”
“Thank you. I lost my temper a little.”
“He lives, which is more than he should expect. Will you ride, or may I walk with you for a while?”
“Please.” We walked together and Bronze followed us. Leisel’s cloak was a thin, fine garment, designed more for catching the breeze and keeping off the sun than as a rain-proof blanket. It also contained a minor cooling enchantment. Not a temperature control enchantment, but a cooling one. I took it to mean she never went anywhere particularly cold, but maybe she had another, heavier cloak with a warming spell. Then again, her boots were well-worn and could use some professional attention, so I didn’t know how well-off she might be.
“May I speak with you?” she asked.
“We’re walking together. This seems like a perfect opportunity.”
“There is word that you are wealthy and have been robbed.”
“It’s not a secret, but I’m surprised how quickly rumors get around.”
“Do you wish to hire a blade? I am experienced as both a mercenary and as a caravan guard.”
I thought about it. I can’t have Bronze guard the mine and still run back and forth to Sarashda. I could leave Firebrand, but it would be more of a witness than a guard. The spells I cast would handle most thieves, but a competent wizard could either dismantle them or discharge them, depending. It would only take a trio of thieves to get in, if they were persistent, and one might even get out. Leisel could solve some of these problems.
The drawback, of course, would be her mouth. She would witness a lot of things probably best kept private. Then again, I’m Orb-hunting. Will I stick around afterward? I might. This might be a world worth establishing a lair in. It could work as a place to examine the Earth timelines. If I do decide to stay, Leisel could be a great source of information on the local culture.
Firebrand?
Yo.
Can I trust her?
She really does want a job, Boss, if that’s what you’re asking. The only other thing I’m picking up is about you, personally—no ulterior motives.
What do you mean, about me personally?
She thinks you’re handsome, skilled, and wealthy, in that order.