by Garon Whited
After the ceremony, everyone dispersed. Tamara came up to me and took my arm. She tugged on it to get me to walking and we talked.
“You seem very sad for someone who only knew him a week,” she started.
“I’m just thinking he wasn’t kidding about being dead.”
She chuckled and squeezed my arm. “That’s not all, surely?”
I admitted it, adding, “I’m sad I won’t know him better.”
She cocked her head at me. “And is that all? Or does something more trouble you?”
I felt uncomfortable, suddenly. “The pyre reminded me of someone I lost, not long ago. She… burned.”
Tamara looked surprised, then sympathetic and sad, herself. “It is hard for me to imagine burning. I cannot understand it, for I cannot be burned. But I know pain, and I know death. And beyond the shadow of death there is life.”
“Maybe. I’m in no hurry to go find out.”
Tamara smiled. “You doubt?”
“Let us say, rather, that I don’t know.”
She looked puzzled. “You don’t?”
“Nope. I hope, I guess. But how can I know?”
“Ask.”
“Who? Your goddess?”
“She is your goddess as well,” she answered, smiling again. “You are alive, are you not?”
“Well… at the moment, yes.”
It annoyed me that she took it so matter-of-factly one could simply ask a deity and expect a clear answer. I guess that’s just par for the course. You have questions, you get faith, you don’t have any questions anymore. It always comes back to faith. Have faith! Have faith and all will be revealed! —or, at least, you won’t feel the need to ask those pesky questions!
All my life, my family was big on religion—mainly, searching for the one that suited Mom. Some of my earliest memories involve getting dragged to yet another church function. There I could sit, stand, sing, pray, sit, stand, sing, pray… and, of course, get shoved into another gaggle of kids I’d never seen before. I don’t care what denomination they are, kids are still kids, and I was always the new guy.
If you get the impression it put me off religion, you may be right.
Still, I’ve never heard God say anything to me. Maybe I’m deaf, or just don’t know how to listen. Maybe it’s because I don’t really believe. I’ve never had a ray of light come down from the clouds while a voice in the thunder Tells Me How It Is. But I’d like to believe. I’d like to believe that Someone knows what He/She is doing. I’d like to believe that Someone is In Charge. And I’m hoping that there’s a complaint department.
But I’ve never seen anything to say, There is a Power here beyond your understanding.
I looked away, even as I put my hand on hers, holding it to my arm. My eye fell on the not-so-distant circle of flame-touched earth.
In my world, we’d call that sort of thing a miracle.
“Tamara?”
“Yes?”
“How often do you and the goddess… chat?”
She chuckled. “Constantly. I am one of the few who can hear Her.”
“How would I go about, ah…”
“…speaking to Her?” she finished. “Simply speak. She will hear you. She hears all who address Her. I will even speak for Her.”
Oh, what the hell.
“Um. Well, I need to know… I guess I want to know about Sasha. My wife. Ex-wife. Is she… rather, did she go… uh… is she happy?”
Tamara cocked her head, listening to something I couldn’t hear. Her expression was one I’ve seen on many faces: the look of a person on the phone, speaking and listening to someone that can’t be seen. She started to say something, checked herself, then nodded.
Her hair flickered, reddened, and started to glow. In seconds, it looked like her head was on fire.
Her eyes began to burn. I mean it. Flames took the place of her eyes—white and green fire in the shape of eyes. They focused on me and I felt as though I was looking back up the microscope lens. I had to squint to look at them; her eyes—Her eyes?—were bright as a welding arc.
When she spoke, it was not Tamara’s voice. It was her throat, and sounds she could make. It was recognizably Tamara speaking. But it wasn’t her voice.
“She rests from long labor, and is content.”
I didn’t need to consider it. True, I could probably figure out a spell to make an illusion of the fires and something to distort my voice to match the sound effect, but I didn’t need to examine it—that was something besides Tamara or a spell. Whatever it was, it was powerful and primal and quite definitely not human. Don’t ask me how I know. I just know. I stared while the pyrotechnics settled down into a normal human being again. Tamara held my arm with both hands as the fiery effects subsided, then leaned on me. I put an arm around her and helped her to sit down on a rock.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I will be. It is—difficult to bear.”
“I imagine! Why did you do it?”
“She thought it best,” Tamara answered, as though that covered all the bases.
“Why?”
Tamara adopted her listening pose. “Would you have accepted my words without Her?”
I thought about it.
“Now that you mention it, no. Probably not. Not really.”
Tamara simply smiled at me and said nothing. I guess the goddess knows what She’s doing. I glanced upward, toward the sun.
“Thank You.”
Tamara answered, “You are welcome, My child.”
I shelved the thoughts that started.
“Do you want help getting home?” I asked.
“That would be very kind.”
I whistled for Bronze and helped Tamara up, then mounted behind her to help keep her in the saddle. She didn’t seem weak, just shaky. She pointed out directions and we followed them at a trot; it was the smoothest ride Bronze has ever given me. Either she likes Tamara or realized I wanted to be careful with our passenger.
Tamara’s place was a sod house. It wasn’t too large and not at all impressive, but it also blended well with the hillside. We were very close before I realized the door wasn’t set in the hill.
I helped her down and she opened her door.
“Will you come in for tea?” she asked.
“I’d love to, but I have to get back to work. Sometime soon, though?”
“I will be pleased to have you as my guest,” she answered, smiling. If she was unhappy at my refusal, she hid it well. She stood on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
She went inside and gently shut the door.
I mounted up on Bronze, thinking a lot of things, and none of them coherent.
Back at the manor, Shada was waiting for me. This caused me no end of thoughtful moments.
Shada is my de-facto wife, at present; at least, that’s our story. She was sticking to it, too; she slept in the bed, with or without me, kept Jon’s—excuse me, our—apartments clean, made sure I ate human food regularly, bossed household slaves, and so on. On my part, I made sure the menials knew she was someone who could boss them, gave her the lion’s share of the stipend the baron provided, and tried not to be too odious a roommate.
But do I love her? No, I don’t think I do. Oh, I like her, certainly. I like Tamara. Hell, I like Ander. And Shada is a lithe and cuddly armful if I do put my head down on the pillow. I suspect that Tamara would be, too; she’s less of a dancer—heavier—but more curvy. Shada isn’t showing a bit of interest, though; Tamara is.
Okay, let’s be honest, here. It’s also been a while since I got any. Maybe that’s it.
Should I just ask Shada? Not for sex—not just for sex—but how she feels? I know we’re not really married, but I still feel iffy about the possibility of seeing Tamara while our charade is going on. It’s not like we have a commitment or anything… it’s only a cover story on why we stay together… we can’t possibly pass for brother and sister, that’s certain
… but it still feels wrong to be hanging out with a pretty lady that obviously likes me when the other one doesn’t even know about her. It makes me feel like a two-timing louse, and I hate that.
I would have to be an ethical bloodsucking fiend of darkness!
There’s too much irony running around loose in the world. Worlds. You know what I mean.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 26TH
I spent the night on a ride outside the city, out and around the countryside. There are mining camps up in the Eastrange for metal and for coal, as well as lumber camps. I found them, just to know where they were and how they operated. The mines are pretty rudimentary. The lumber camps are just that: camps. Very mobile. The highest technological innovation is the two-man saw. I started thinking about a sawmill.
Some time ago, three or four generations, the baron decreed that any land cleared without a homestead on it had to have at least one tree left standing for every forty feet. If someone could stretch a forty-foot rope out from a tree trunk and not reach another trunk, then another tree had to be planted in there somewhere. That kept the forest from being thinned out too much. But the law also requires that for every tree taken down, two seedlings of the same type must be planted, one on each side of the stump.
Kept the lumberjacks in business, I guess. Kept the dryads happy, too, sort of. At least, that’s what they tell me. It’s an unwritten rule that if a dryad says “No, that one is mine,” the tree is left alone. It’s a de-facto treaty of sorts, enforced on both sides.
Shortly after sunrise, the baron sent for me. Before she went to bed, Shada had laid out fresh clothes and a sponge-and-basin for my morning ablutions. Sasha was right; sunrise got easier and less messy as time went on. A quick sponge bath and a change of clothes and I was ready to go.
I showed up in the gym, as instructed. The baron was wrestling with some of the house guards; both he and the present guard were stripped to the waist and barefoot, locking arms and legs and rolling on the floor, doing unpleasant things with grips and throws. At last, the baron let go of the gurgling guard and stood, then offered him a hand up. Once they parted, he turned to me.
“So, you’ve some small skill with a blade; well and good. You will get better, wizard. Every man in this house can use a sword, bow, and lance; you will, too. Can you wrestle?”
“A little,” I replied, thinking of various martial arts I’ve taken. Aikido, judo, various types of karate… the best I’d ever done was a green belt in judo, and that was over four years ago. I’m not particularly afraid of any normal man in a fair fight, but my hand-to-hand training isn’t what I’d call in-depth.
“Then come at me, wizard,” he said. He was on the border between a smile and a sneer.
The baron shouldn’t have used that tone. He said “wizard” the same way I would have said, “jerk.” I unbuckled Firebrand, set my staff aside, pulled off my boots and shirt, and stepped forward.
He started to circle; I circled with him. He stepped forward, one hand moving forward to catch the back of my head. I stepped forward with him, hugged, and lifted him off his feet. I jumped up and forward to land face-down on the floor—except I landed on the baron. Hard. I weigh a lot more than he thought. His breath went out like a blown tire and I bounced to my feet.
A moment later, he rolled over and rose, slowly.
“Are you…” he began, then paused, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. “Are you using some wizard’s trick?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” I replied, trying to sound polite. “You made that quite clear when we practiced with wooden swords. Never.”
He nodded. “As you say.” He rushed me. He landed a one-two pair in my abdomen and I grunted, partly out of surprise, partly from the blows; he had a hell of a punch. He foot-swept and I went down. He landed on top of me with a knee in my gut, then both hands went to one arm, twisting.
I resisted the twist and grabbed his other knee. Specifically, his kneecap; I dug my fingers under it as though to pop it off. He made a sound halfway between “eeek” and “arrrgh” and tried to roll away.
I didn’t let go; that stopped his attempt to roll away. He gave me a solid cross to the jaw and I felt it; it snapped my head around nicely. That was a punch he meant.
I folded myself, legs coming up behind him, and kneed him in the back, hard. He pitched forward and I met him on the way down with a head-butt to the cheek—I was going for the nose, but he tried to twist aside. Still, while he was down here… I punched him in the side with my free hand twice, ribs and kidney. Then I let go with my kneecap hold—I had to; the angle was awkward and my fingers were starting to slip—and he immediately rolled to the side. I rolled the same direction, brought up both feet, and half-kicked, half-shoved him, sending him skidding across the floor.
I got up and readied myself. He got up more slowly and regarded me, breathing hard. Thin trickles of blood ran down his side from skin scraped open against the floor and he favored that knee.
“Are you lying?” he asked, working his right arm and twisting his torso to assess the damage. I’ll say this: the man could take a hit and worry about it later.
“No, lord.”
“I’ll have you flogged with a salted lash if you are.”
“I swear to you, lord, I have no spells on that could affect this combat. I have only a spell to deflect purely magical attacks.”
He regarded me for a long moment, then laughed softly and called for wine and water.
“It seems hardly fair,” he said, seating himself and drinking deeply of the diluted wine, “that some men should be so broad-reaching in their talents. You are stronger than you look, but also have the talent for magic. It is almost an affront to those of us who have only a few of these advantages.” Bhota pressed a damp cloth to the scrapes along the baron’s back; the baron stiffened, then relaxed.
“I was not born with beauty, wealth, or position, lord,” I answered. “Perhaps there is a balance in these things.”
“Perhaps there is, at that. Ah, well. I trust you are not injured?”
“Somewhat bruised and aching, lord,” I replied.
“Then you will report to Davad every morning for instruction in arms; after lunch, you may continue with your duties.”
“As you wish, sire.”
He drew the cloth away and regarded the blood. “And have you anything to put your broken baron back together after you’ve smashed him?”
I smiled; he was smiling as he said it.
“I believe I might, lord. It is not the work of a moment; when you please, my lord, I will be happy to do so.”
“We shall repair to your workshop. I feel the need of some repairs.”
We limped up the stairs, accompanied by several of the guard.
Shada was startled to have us come into the rooms; she curtseyed to the baron immediately, though. He waved her up absently and dismissed her from his mind as we entered the workshop.
I had him sit on the floor inside the circle, then explained to him what I was going to do.
“Everyone heals, eventually,” I said. “We take in food and our bodies turn it into flesh. Our old flesh dies away and is removed in our wastes. What I am going to do is tell your body to do it faster. A lot faster. And I will supply, magically, much of what your body needs to do so. You’ll eat like a tiger after we’re done, though.”
He nodded. “I am pleased you tell me these things; Jon was reticent about his workings.”
“Please sit quietly, my lord, and try to relax.”
So I did exactly that. Since I had half a dozen guards in the room, I wove a spell that drew on their life energies, much as I might draw on them at night. I couldn’t drain them quickly enough to kill them with a spell; it was simply moderately tiring to them. But the spell poured their combined energies into the baron, focusing them on his regenerative capacity. It was really an experiment to see if direct transfer of life force would be more effective than using it focus more magic into a spell. I cheated a little and t
ook some of that spell for myself; the baron hadn’t damaged me, but I was aching from his blows.
I wondered if this was how Jon had managed to stay alive so long. Could he have been a wizard’s equivalent to a vampire? He knew a lot about such spells, but didn’t have the natural (unnatural?) advantage I have in dealing with such forces. I can use a spell to see them during the day, just as he could, but he never learned how to manipulate that energy. It seems to be a talent I have.
Hmph. I wonder why.
“There you are, my lord. You should be right as rain by lunch. But hungry, I remind you.”
“I’m already hungry,” he replied. “And I feel like I could wrestle dragons—or you.”
“Please, my lord; give it at least an hour to work before doing anything strenuous. Or, at least, combative. Archery, perhaps. Or riding. But no blows, please.”
“Very well. I shall do as you suggest, Halar,” he agreed, smiling slightly.
I smiled back. I noticed he wasn’t calling me “wizard” anymore.
That afternoon I was walking on the seawall, observing the fishing fleet, nodding at the occasional sentry, and listening to the sound of surf. It was a nice day, and I was enjoying the walk. That’s when I heard a cry for “the wizard.”
It’s not the word to which I object; it’s the tone the baron used. Contempt pushes my buttons.
I turned to see what was the matter and found a man was chasing after me at speed. He was dressed in typical clothes—wool and cotton, leather for his shoes and belt, tight sleeves and breeches. He carried no visible weapons. Upon reaching me, he paused to gasp for breath.
“Take a moment,” I said. “Just breathe. I’ll get your message quicker if I don’t have to puzzle it out of pieces.”
He nodded, rested a moment, and then said, “My master has sent me—indeed, all of the servants of the household—to seek you, lord. He bids you to come to him with all haste, if you will, for his wife is ill unto death.”
“Of course I will. Take me to your master.”
Rather than let the fellow run all the way back, we detoured slightly to the baron’s manor. I mounted Bronze and let him ride behind and give directions. Shortly we were in the upscale district of the town. I was shown into a bedchamber immediately. The room was dim and hot, with a small fireplace and several candles.