by Garon Whited
And I did. Kavel said he could have what I wanted in less than an hour. I said I’d pick it up in the morning. Then I helped T’yl with a few suits of armor, thanked him for his good work, and went to find Bronze.
Playing with the frequency-shifting spells again reminded me that I have the whole electromagnetic spectrum as my playground. Therefore, my third warning shot was going to be less damaging and more humiliating. I planned to rescue Bob.
Firebrand told me he was imprisoned in a tower. Since location spells didn’t find him, my assumption was that he was in one of the five towers of the palace in Vathula. That’s not terribly helpful, obviously, but it might be just enough.
Bronze carried me north again, then west, into the pass. But we diverted off the main trail and worked our way around to a much better vantage point, one where I had a good view of the palace. Someone else apparently thought it was a good lookout point, too, so I killed the sentries and settled in to work while their blood crept over to me and crawled up my boots.
The spells around the palace would block location spells and/or the projection of a scrying sensor. They would probably block magical gates and other forms of non-spatial translation. They might even deflect some magical attacks. I didn’t have a chance to analyze it; I couldn’t get close enough.
On the other hand, the scryshield didn’t prevent someone simply looking at the palace. I could see it just fine. Which meant, if I was clever, I could see anything I wanted, anyway.
I built my frequency-shifting spell to ignore everything but the infrared spectrum. That didn’t do much on its own, but then I stepped up the gain, amplifying it. Eventually, I tweaked it into a false-color filter of the heat traces through the walls.
And, of course, the walls of the towers—the upper levels, anyway—were thinner than almost anywhere else. As the night progressed and the stone walls cooled, the images became more pronounced. People occupied a lot of the towers, at all levels. The one I wanted, though, was on the northeast side of the palace, about six floors up. It had a single figure in it, cooler than it should be, and no heat sources to keep it warm.
I switched vantage points to get a different angle, killing another sentry post in the process. Yes, I was pretty sure that was the only prisoner. Everyone else was either too large or too active. It was the right size for an elf, about the right temperature for a prisoner with no blanket, all that stuff.
It wasn’t certain, obviously, but it gave me a good shot at stealing Bob from Keria. With a little luck, I could convince her that taking Firebrand from her versus her giving Firebrand to me wasn’t a matter of ability, just a matter of the gesture. “See, I can take anything I want. Do you want to force me to take my sword back, or are you ready to just give it to me?”
Won’t work. I know it won’t. But I guess I need to try.
Saturday, July 10th
The breakfast meeting went quickly. Rendal wasn’t too comfortable, at first, but he settled in when he saw me eating normal food. I guess the idea of sitting within arm’s reach of a feeding nightlord isn’t a very comfortable one. He saw me eat last night, both ways, but he was a lot farther away, too.
We ran through the usual stuff and spent some time on Rendal’s new rank and duties. Everyone assured him that if he needed help, they would give him whatever support he needed. Rendal seemed actually touched by the sincere, factual expressions of support.
Then, breakfast cleared away and people off to their tasks, I put my fancy clothes on and prepared to repel boarders—excuse me, “receive visitors.”
Under normal circumstances, I would cheerfully put one of the two eldest and hopefully wisest people I have—T’yl or Tort—on this, maybe with Kelvin for the military viewpoint. That would allow me to run screaming into the hills to build a sawmill or redesign that six-bladed plow.
But they wanted to talk to the King, not a flunky. Dammit.
I suck at high-level negotiations.
No, that’s not meant to be funny.
I was on my best behavior. I was polite, courteous, even genteel. I even tried for thrifty, loyal, clean, brave, and reverent. They were equally polite, even respectful. I bet they would have been just as nice even without my personal guards in the room.
But they seemed to have an infinite supply of mindless chatter. About the only one I liked was the guy Banler sent, a brawny fellow named Willit. He looked about as sharp as a canvas sack, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes were never still.
I got lots of compliments on the kingdom and a lot of questions about trade, most of which I couldn’t answer. How many tons of steel do we produce in a year? How much grain? How many dazhu pelts? No idea.
I had a goblet just to give my hands something to do; I pretended to drink from it periodically. Finally, I set it aside and made it clear we were getting down to the brass tacks.
“Gentlemen, I’ve enjoyed our discussion,” I lied, “and I’m sure you’ll understand that I have a number of demands on my time. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like; Karvalen is happy to have you as our guests. But if you have anything to say to the King, you might want to say it now. I don’t know how many weeks it will be before I can give you another audience.”
They looked at each other with that expression that says, “You first.” Willit was the only one not upset by this; there might have been a flicker of amusement, in fact.
Finally, the dignitary from Wexbry—a man named Follet—cleared his throat. I did my best to look at him with polite interest, rather than glare at him with impatience. I thought I did pretty well.
“My lord—” he began, but Torvil cut him off.
“Your Majesty,” he corrected. Follet nodded, head dipping almost like he was ducking under something thrown at his face.
“Your Majesty,” he repeated. “I believe we are all familiar with the ongoing campaign of Byrne in its conquest of the northeastern portions of old Rethven. Yes?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “Byrne hasn’t been high on my list of things to do.”
“Ah. Yes. Well. It is somewhat more pressing a matter to those of us without a massive range of mountains to hide behind.”
“I imagine,” I said, ignoring the dig about hiding behind the Eastrange.
“Byrne has proven rather more powerful than expected, especially in the field. They have sorcerous weapons that can kill men or shatter walls with thunder and fire.”
“I’ve heard about that, a little,” I admitted. “Go on.”
“We, that is, our Princes, have attempted to consult with Arondael about these weapons. We were told that they are protected by magic; possibly a wizard operates each one, and also wards it from examination or interference.”
“Tricky.”
“Indeed. We were hoping,” he said, carefully, “that we might prevail upon you… since you have something of a reputation as a Hero… to gather more information on this matter.”
“I could arrange that. What’s in it for me?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You want the King of Karvalen to go off and examine the army of your enemy, then report to you on his findings. Okay, that’s fine; there are things I do around here because no one else can do them. I’m used to that. But you aren’t my subjects, and aside from Willit, there, you don’t even represent any of my allies. So you must have come with an offer of some sort. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Follet looked uncomfortable. They all did.
“My instructions,” he said, “were to discuss with you the possibility. There was no mention of a… a price.”
“Your Princes just wanted you to ask, as a favor?”
“I suppose. In essence. Yes.”
“Are they stupid?” I waved my hand, as though to erase the words. “No, strike that. Forget I said it. They’re not stupid, but maybe they didn’t think this through. Doubtless, they’re worried about Byrne and not focusing on other matters too well. That must be it.”
There were nods all around
. Must be.
“Fine. Go home. Find out what I get in exchange for helping them. Trading partners? Allies? Barons in the new territories acquired by Karvalen? Whatever. Then we can see if I’m interested in going on this field trip for a bunch of strangers.”
“Majesty?” asked Willit.
“Yes?”
“May I remain in Karvalen? I would like to use a mirror, if I may.”
“Of course; Baret and Karvalen are good friends and allies already. The rest of you are dismissed.”
They went without a bit of protest. Even Willit left the room, probably to go find lunch.
I ruthlessly abused my power again. I sent Kammen to go bring lunch up for us.
T’yl spent most of the day working on the circle of metal Kavel made. It was a flat ribbon of steel, and T’yl carved symbols into it while I watched. He was right; it was a complicated spell. It was a bit more refined than the one I vaguely remembered from Zirafel, but still familiar.
I wonder how many spells I know. Someday, I’ll catalog them all. Someday.
I wonder… I think about spells differently from the locals. They view spells more as whole, entire entities, like a poem. I think of spells in terms of component parts to achieve effects, like a list. Theirs are more efficient, true, but I slap things together and get stuff done, albeit at the risk of having one blow up in my face. Does my digested knowledge of magic help me in that? Surely so… Am I using ancient spells from dead memories, or am I really building new ones? Interesting question. I’m not sure how to tell which is which.
While he finished, I sent Bronze ahead to wait for me; she wasn’t actually vital to my plan, but it was good to have her in position as backup.
The first thing we tried was the arch. I targeted the room I selected and we tried to make a connection. There was something interfering, as expected, so I dropped it. Maybe we could hammer through it, beating down the shield with brute power, but I don’t like that method. It’s wasteful. Even if it worked, the gate would be severely depleted and probably not useful for both going there and coming back. And if we didn’t break through, that meant the spells guarding the palace would still be up and I’d have to start building a charge on the gate from zero.
Not my cup of hemoglobin, really.
On the other hand, a little probing discovered that the gate could park me anywhere outside the palace without too much trouble.
We waited until my sunset transformation ran its course. I cleaned up and T’yl ran through the list of spells I wanted to wear.
“Are you sure you want that armor?” he asked. “It adds to the weight, which depletes the flight spell more quickly.”
“If anything goes wrong, I may need it. If I have to, I can just add more power to the spell, right?”
“True, up to a point. It’s still just a spell; it will begin to decay from the power you have to run through it. Keep an eye on it. You won’t be flying more than half a stripe or so, unless you add more power. It will give out a few flickers short of a full stripe no matter what we do—and yes, that’s the best we can do for someone of your weight. You’re like trying to fly a horse, Sire.”
“Bronze would be offended.”
“I won’t tell her if you won’t.”
“Deal.”
“One more thing, Sire.”
“What?”
“You do realize that you’re about to embark on a perilous quest without any of your guards.” It wasn’t a question, but it implied one.
“Yes, I do. And I don’t want an argument. They can’t help me with this one; I have things to do as a nightlord, not a king.”
“I’m not sure they’ll appreciate the difference. I’m not even sure if Tort will, and she’ll let you do almost anything you want.” Was that a faint smirk? Maybe. Well, maybe he was right, too.
“Look, I said I don’t want an argument.”
“I’m not arguing, just pointing out. Whether you wish it or not, you are a king. Everything you do carries that along with it.” He shrugged. “If you wanted to be a private individual, you chose the wrong career.”
“I mean, I don’t want an argument from everyone else. If I tell them what I’m going to do, they’ll argue. Gently, yes; respectfully, yes. Then I’ll feel guilty for ignoring their advice and making them worry about my well-being. I hate that.”
“And you must therefore sneak away without telling them?”
“Damn it, T’yl!” I burst out. “I’m a powerful and dangerous creature! Can’t I just hang up my crown for the night and go out and be a normal blood-sucking fiend of the night?”
“No.”
I glared at him, but I had the sinking feeling he was right. Damn him.
“T’yl,” I continued, more quietly, “if I get everyone else involved in this, it will not only take longer, but have materially more risk to everyone involved. I can accomplish things alone that no one else can. In fact, having people along to help is often an impossibility; they slow me down.”
“I understand that,” he replied, gently. “I merely point out that you cannot leave behind your responsibilities. You are the King. Every citizen of your kingdom knows you by sight. Most of them worship you as a god—or, at least, a nightlord. You cannot take off that mantle and leave it on the throne for someone else. You cannot mount it, as you would a gem, in a crown to place on the head of another. Even Tort cannot take your place as the center of the kingdom, and I begin to believe that she knows it. Wherever you go, whatever you do, you are the King until you are destroyed, Your Majesty.”
“Oh?” I asked, skeptically. “And what if I screw it up?”
“How? Everything you do seems to be part of some larger plan—or so people believe. The kingdom prospers as never before. People from distant lands flock to our shores. Industry and trade multiply. New riches flow into our land. The kingdom’s strength has risen constantly since you returned, and is now a power no other will fail to consider in their calculations. You would have to try to be deposed, much to the detriment of the people, and I doubt you have it in you to do so.”
What frightened me was the thought that he might be right. I’ve brought chaos and change to the kingdom, and a lot of it. But has it generally been for the better? Maybe. He seemed to think so, and he seemed to think everyone else thought so. Of course, T’yl isn’t exactly known for his intimate knowledge of the common people.
Nevertheless, he was right about one thing. I didn’t have it in me to do anything less than my best. I couldn’t bring myself to do a bad job of running a government just to have people kick me out of office. It would cause to much pain and suffering.
“I acknowledge your points,” I said, slowly, “but, whatever it is that makes me a king, it’s part of what makes me myself. I can’t be just a king; I have to be me. The kingdom can have my effort—blood, toil, tears, and sweat—but it doesn’t get to own my soul. Got that?”
“So, what do we do if you don’t come back?” he asked, not answering. “The realm, I mean.”
“Oh. Um. Well, what did you do before I came back?”
“Not much. Pretended to care, listened to Amber, nodded sagely, and experimented on ways to halt aging.”
“What did the realm do?” I clarified.
“Mostly, it just sat around and let people do their usual daily thing. Peasants do what peasants do.”
Which, perhaps, also helps to explain why all the knowledge I brought to the place didn’t have more effect on it.
“All right,” I said, “if I don’t come back, your job is to get everyone to rescue me. How’s that?”
“Perfectly clear, Sire. I’ll take care of everything,” he assured me, which probably meant that he’d tell Tort. T’yl tends toward the minimum of effort—on his part—for a maximum of results.
So I wound up able to fly for about ten minutes and mostly invisible for an hour. I took the wall-breaching hoop, doused the lights, and opened the gate.
I stepped through onto a mountainside, a
s close as I could get to Vathula. The gate snapped shut behind me. It cost a lot of power to do that without a receiving gate on the Vathula end, but it was worth it for the surprise value. I hoped.
So, northeast tower, about that high up…
I kicked off from the mountainside in a leap and let the flying spell take over. It was excellent; I whisked through the air like a man with a jet pack. I decided that learning this spell was going to be a priority when I got back. It’s more fun than a motorcycle, even over relatively short distances. I barely had time to regret that I was on serious business; I wanted to swoop and soar.
Then I hit the spells warding the palace and everything went to hell.
Whatever they were using, it wasn’t just a scryshield. It broke every spell on me, from spell disrupter to scryshield to flying spell to invisibility. It even ruined my ring of wall-breaching. About the only things it failed to affect were my actual enchanted items—sword, armor, that stuff.
I was annoyed. Also, falling, which annoyed me further. There seemed to be a direct correlation between my downward velocity and my level of annoyance. Odd. I also realized there’s something visceral and instinctive about plummeting to one’s doom. It brings out something primal in a person, something that knows this is bad, something that just wants to scream all the way to the ground.
I suppressed it ruthlessly. There’s no point in screaming when I was about to make enough noise to wake the dead.
I hit the courtyard fairly well, I think. I mean, I hit feet-first and rolled with it. In hyperdrive, I had all the time in the world to account for my forward velocity, to consider exactly how I wanted to plant my feet, and to absorb the maximum momentum with every stage of my intersection with the stones. I clanged like an accident in a bellmaker’s shop as I hit, rolled, and skidded across the stones, trailing sparks. A lot of people in watchtowers, along the wall, and scattered about the courtyard turned to stare.
That was about to be a problem. I could either push on, or I could abort. If I aborted now, a lot more precautions would appear. Security would tighten. If I pressed on, there was at least a chance of accomplishing something useful.