by Garon Whited
Some days, you can field everything. There’s a lot to do, and you can do it all. Other days, to accomplish anything, you have to put your head down, your feet in gear, and power through one damn task at a time.
Is there anything I can do—right now—about Renata and my pet light? No. How about the Naskarl of Sarcana? No. Do I need to help with building a millrace? I probably should, but do I need to do it now? No. How about a waterwheel? No. Plowing? Barbarian hunting? Mining spells? Forge construction? Politics in Sarashda? Any of it?
Right now? This very minute? No.
What I do need to do—and can do, right now—is sit silently in my tower top and consider why the hell I’m such an angry person.
Who knows? It might even help me accomplish other things. But all those are for later.
I continued to the top floor, ignoring questions, and shut the trapdoor over the stairs.
One of the peculiarities of meditation is the alteration of time. When I’m in my mental study, I get to think about things for a long time relative to the outside, physical world. In meditation, it’s somewhat different. Time seems to stretch forever, true, but the way I think is different. It’s not a drive along a road through the mountains of logic toward a goal. It’s more like becoming a wind and blowing through the forest of intuition to see what leaves fall.
I must admit, I paid more attention to manhandling and skullcracking than I did to meditative philosophy when I studied martial arts. Still, there was meditation practice in my lessons, so I’m not completely untrained.
I spent an hour sealing off the top floor, making it as distraction-proof as possible. Sound, light, vibrations, temperature, you name it, I planned to have at least a brief period where nothing and nobody would bother me.
I need the quiet. The slightest thing can break my meditation. I’m a hard focus sort, directing my attention on something until it melts. Meditation is a much softer discipline than I am comfortable with. My mind wants to focus on something, not let go of my focus! Any distraction gives it an excuse to exercise its laser-like quality, which can be annoying, which further disrupts my attempt at meditation and makes me even more annoyed, and there goes my attempt.
Maybe I’m doing this wrong. The classical meditation I learned involved sitting in lotus and letting everything else fade into the background. I’ve done it—with a teacher—but it’s a rare thing to do it successfully and for any length of time. There are other schools of thought, though, to which I was introduced, but not trained. Maybe trying another technique would be useful.
So I stood up and adopted a stance. There are sequences of moves in martial arts, some of which are combinations one may use in combat. Others are more practice-oriented, to be done in a slow, controlled manner. I started in on a long, slow sequence, much like a Tai Chi session.
With my private little world all sealed off and my upper mind suitably occupied, I asked myself why I was so angry. Why do I have so much repressed anger buried inside me? What’s the deal?
I left the questions behind me while I worked on going through every motion as smoothly and fluidly as possible. Somewhere in the back of my mind, my thoughts bubbled like a witches’ cauldron on a coal fire.
I have a lot of things making me angry. If I want to, I can go back all the way to Terri. Being shanghaied into being a vampire. Then large, ugly men beating up my best friend. Losing Sasha. Being sucked into otherworldly politics. Being then sucked into multi-universal politics, also known as religion. Forcibly and unwillingly becoming a king. Oh, and the whole Demon King thing. Let’s not forget losing Tamara, nearly losing Amber, and almost losing Tianna—twice! Speaking of losses, didn’t someone once disintegrate Bronze? There’s at least some irritation left over about that, to say nothing of the terror the thought of actually losing her brings with it. Mary was kidnapped, my stuff was stolen, I was crucified, and an angel gloated over me. People scared Tymara—there’s a big pile of angry I haven’t even touched. And Johann—as much as I’d like to, Johann is an incident I’ll never forget. Of course, wholesale slaughter of the Lord of Light’s pleasure-junkies didn’t do me any favors.
The list goes on and on and on of people and things who have pissed me off in one way or another. So, having a lot of pent-up anger is, possibly, only to be expected.
But what has raised the pressure to the point where it’s leaking out through the gasket? Why do I feel so short-fused now?
Chess.
Chess? What the…? Why chess? What does that mean? Why is chess important?
No, don’t focus on it. Wonder about it. I’ve got part of an answer and my brain is grabbing at it. Open the metaphorical hands, let the concept loose. Let it drift around and see what else it touches. Treat it like a single ember and see what bright flames it lights. Take a breath. Don’t think about it. Focus on breathing. Focus on moving. Focus on a glacially-slow punch. Focus on balance in a ballet-like kick. A thousand leaves will fall in the forest, but only one will ripple the surface of the pool. Wait for the ripples. Wait for the image in the pool to form. Move slowly and focus on the movement while other pieces of my mind breathe on the leaves.
Dominoes, all toppling in sequence, running along paths to form patterns, diagrams, images.
Chess? Dominoes? Is my mind playing games? No, the dominoes aren’t being played. They’re falling. So, chess and falling dominoes.
Dominoes falling… one after another. Chess. Gambits, sequences of moves forced by one move. Connection?
I nuked a world. The Orb escaped. I followed. Now, even though I go where I want and do what I want, the larger moves ahead of me are written, forced upon me. Where did it start? With destroying the cities? Or with the creation of the Orb? Or with the Demon King? Or as far back as Sasha?
In this instant, my life—my entire life—seems a sham, a shadow-play, as hollow and pointless as a disused seashell, full of the same meaningless roaring, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
This. This is why I have such a deep aversion to the idea of time travel, paradox, predestination, and fate. If time travel is possible, it’s possible to make everything I’ve ever done—possible for anyone to make their own lives—a farce of epic proportions.
And there’s part of the reason I’m so angry. I’m a puppet dancing on strings and there isn’t even a puppeteer. I’ve fallen into a web of rubber bands and I’m bouncing around with no control. I’m riding the wave of the falling dominoes, unable to leap aside. I’m playing chess, but my moves are forced in an inevitable series leading to checkmate.
There’s also the guilt.
As I admitted it to myself, my eyes snapped open. My heart pounded, my palms were wet, and a dull ache from my tight-clenched jaw told me I’d hit the nail on the head. I returned to a rest position and lay down on the stone floor, staring up at the high dome of the ceiling. There’s the helplessness. There’s the anger. I’m stuck in a time loop like a sock in a dryer, spinning around. But maybe the worst thing is the sense of shame and failure at what I’ve done, what I have to do. No, what I have to undo.
I’ve been practicing denial a lot. I’m good at it. This, however, was a whole new level of trouble and denial wasn’t working. I might not think about my temporal difficulties, but the gnawing anxiety about them was still there, constantly irritating me, along with the hidden knowledge of my own failure. This is a Bad Thing. A very Bad Thing. Not only for me, but, potentially, for everyone around me. Hell, for everyone within a thousand miles of me. I’m dangerous when I’m in a good mood.
All right. They say the first step in solving a problem is acknowledging you have one. Fine. Step one, complete. It’s not like any of these things comes as any sort of surprise. These things have been my—if I may use a totally inappropriate metaphor—cross to bear for an awfully long time.
So, yes, I’m angry. Yes, I’ve definitely established why. In that sense, I’ve made great strides. Now, what do I do about it? I’m not sure what I can do a
bout it. I guess everyone around me is going to have to cope with a grumpy vampire.
No. No, that’s wrong. They shouldn’t have to. No, more than that, even. They can’t. The list of people who could cope with me in a foul mood is a short one.
I will have to cope with the grumpy vampire. I will have to be responsible. I have to acknowledge I have a temper-tantrum problem and be constantly vigilant.
Damn. I’m going to have to grow up. I’m no good at adulting!
This could be a problem. I hope I can keep it my problem without it bleeding—or blasting—over on everyone around me.
Since the sunset was almost on me, I waited it out in the tower rather than try for the shower booth. This isn’t so bad in a high-magic world, but I do prefer the ongoing rinse.
Once it was over, I went downstairs and looked Renata over again. I didn’t see anything with vampire eyes my spells didn’t already tell me. She’s healthy, beautiful, and slightly pregnant. What else should I expect? If she were possessed, I would notice, especially since I was looking for it.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing, apparently. You’re perfectly fine. I can’t find a thing wrong with you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“And no doubt you’ll hear it again from men who are interested in your appearance. I say you have no defects requiring magical healing.”
“Oh,” she gulped. My voice might have been a bit frosty. “That’s good, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes, it is.”
“When can I leave the tower?”
“When I’m satisfied the House of Sarcana is no longer treating you as a prize to be captured.”
“You are.”
I checked myself before my snappy answer escaped. Vigilance. On it.
“Yes,” I agreed, gently. “I apologize for that. I feel they’ve forced it on me—on us, rather. You’re free to leave the tower whenever you like, but I’ll ask you to have at least two other warriors with you at all times. I’ll also ask you to quarter here, in the tower, at night. At least until I settle things with the House of Sarcana.”
“And when will that be?” she asked, sounding a bit more optimistic.
“When it is.”
“I don’t like being a prisoner.”
“Think of yourself as the bait in a trap. If a mercenary company comes to take you, we want to know where they’re headed—in this case, the tower. We can contain and capture them more easily here,” I pointed out. She nodded, more curious than worried.
“Do I get to be armed bait?”
“Aren’t you—no, I see you don’t have a weapon. That’s an oversight. I apologize. You should be armed at all times.”
“Thank you.” She relaxed visibly and even smiled a little. “I was starting to feel like a prisoner.”
“I apologize again. I may have overreacted to the kidnapping.”
“I accept your apologies, sir.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll inform Leisel of the situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
I went downstairs and did so. Leisel nodded.
“You know Naskarl won’t be satisfied.”
“But will he shut up and stay out of it?”
“Doubtful. There is a lot of money involved and the priests will take a hefty chunk of it.”
“So, it’ll have to be more expensive than the priests?”
“That… would be a lot of warriors.”
“Or property,” I countered. “What does House Sarcana own?”
“I’m not sure. I never worked for them. Why?”
“Well, if all their businesses, houses, livestock, and other goods burn to ash overnight, they don’t have much to worry about when it comes to the temple offerings. They can worry more about feeding themselves than screwing around with us. And they’ll have a hard time paying warriors to run their errands, now won’t they?”
“It would almost be kinder to kill them.”
“Suppose I simply assassinate Naskarl and see if the next in line is more sensible?”
“That’s murder.”
“You disapprove?”
“Only when it’s not a fair fight. Besides,” she pointed out, “We don’t have a vendetta with them.”
“A formal one?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. What do we have to do to declare a formal vendetta? In this case, I mean.” I didn’t mention I had no idea how formal a vendetta might be.
“It involves the temple,” Leisel warned.
“They take a cut of the House’s wealth as an offering?”
“No, but they do demand an offering before the gods will permit it.”
“What kind? And how quickly can we get it declared?”
“You want to declare a vendetta so badly?”
“No, but it’s nice to know how quickly we can go to full-scale operations if Naskarl won’t shut up and go away.”
“Oh. It usually takes three days to a week for all the oracles and auguries. For an offering, you might need to provide a good horse or the equivalent.”
“That’s all? I would think it was more expensive.”
“Starting one is cheap. Stopping one—after the fighting goes on for a while, it’s pricey to have the priests settle the vendetta.”
“Duly noted. In the meantime, we’ll see what result the naked messengers have.”
I went on to explain about Renata’s freedoms. Leisel looked relieved and promised to take care of it. I left her to her business and went about mine. There’s a lot of rock to be moved from the mine entrances, spells to be reinforced, and new spells cast. I discovered I needed stone blocks and a lot of them. Walls don’t spring up overnight all by themselves. Fortunately, quarrying spells are faster.
Tauta, 6th Day of Milaskir
On an evening trip to my shower stall, I checked on the divinity dynamos. Of course, my pet light wasn’t in there anymore, but neither were the dynamos.
My first thought was not, “Oh, goody.”
I arrived for the first time since my pet light disappeared and immediately noticed the lack of power consumption. The magical intakes on the dynamos aren’t subtle. I flipped open the lid and, sure enough, they were gone. The containment ellipse was also gone, but it was intact. Someone went to the effort of taking it down rather than scratching it out.
First guess? A wizard noticed the power intakes and decided to investigate. Upon investigating, he sees the power containment diagram and doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s not a standard circle, after all. So, rather than risk sticking his hand in it, he takes it apart—not hard to do, considering it wasn’t designed as a prison for summoned entities. Then he can examine the dynamos more closely and discovers there’s the equivalent of an “off” switch. With them both turned off, they stop sucking in magical power, stop rotating madly, and gradually spin to a halt.
After that, it’s just a matter of packing them carefully for transport. Admittedly, they’re mostly orichalcum and osmium—read: extremely dense—so they weigh close to a hundred pounds apiece, but a suitable flying carpet, a Bag of Holding™, or simply a couple of strong servants could solve the problem.
What confuses me is my altar ego’s pattern crystal. It was still there, apparently untouched. It doesn’t radiate magic on its own, so I suppose a wizard might not immediately have an interest, but it’s still sizable for a gemstone and therefore valuable. Why leave it? I don’t know. If I encountered one, I might not touch it, but only because I can see a little of the celestial-class energies clinging to it. With my altar ego, it’s not a big deal, but with any other quasi-deity? I’d want more elaborate preparations. But a wizard wouldn’t—couldn’t—see such things.
How about priests? Presumably, they’re attuned to such energies, or their gods are. If they somehow sensed what little leakage there was, could they have come to investigate the dynamos? The leakage wasn’t great. It wasn’t a shining light in the darkness. But the glowing coal of a cigarette
can be seen a mile away on a dark night. They might see the crystal and decide not to mess with it. If so, why would they steal the dynamos? Or did they take the dynamos and commit the sacrilege first, then notice the crystal?
All right, wizards or priests? First off, can I locate either of my dynamos? Where they are might give me a clue.
I fired up my Ring of Spying on the spot and hunted for them. No soap.
All right, they’re shielded. Possibly in an enchanted box along the lines of the things I saw in the wizards’ shop in Sarashda. Fine. I’m not pleased at them being stolen, but I was the moron who left them alone. Out in the middle of nowhere. Far away from any thieves. In an unassuming, boring box made of raw timber and mud. Heavily shielded to be inconspicuous. Silly me, I thought being out in the wilderness would be enough. Shows what I know. It also tells me someone is paying more attention to what goes on out here than I like. I may have to put together a scrying detector and leave it running. How many people are being sneaky and subtle about their spying?
Son of a… That wizard who came out and hit on all the female warriors. What if he wasn’t out here to chase tail? What if he was an actual spy? There might not be any scrying going on at all.
I am annoyed.
Part of my annoyance is I still don’t know for sure who stole my dynamos. Wizards or priests? They’re the only two classes who might have a use for them. Wizards would be interested in magical mechanisms. Priests would be interested in their power as a form of worship for their patrons. Either way, they would try to keep their stolen goods hidden. I have motivations but no evidence.
Regardless, someone stole my dynamos. I may not have an immediate use for them, but I went to a lot of effort to build the damned things and I want them back. If they’re locked in shielded boxes, they may be taken out periodically for examination and experimentation. I’m okay with that. I’ll try again at different hours of the day and see if I get a hit.
Tauta, 13th Day of Milaskir