Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

“Oh, yes. But he must be impressive. He has to be noble, upright, staunch, chivalrous, generous, kind, understanding, smart, honorable, gentle, loving, caring, strong, durable, tireless, and very potent.”

  “Eeep.”

  She laughed at me and squeezed me hard. “Yes, your odds are good. Feel better?”

  “Much. Except for my back.”

  “Oh, I hardly hurt you.”

  “Then where did the red stains on the stone come from?” I demanded.

  “Oh, those.” Tamara ran her hands over my back. My skin tingled, tensed, and relaxed as the scratches went away. “Silly. A trifle of blood for the Goddess has not harmed you. Did you think I would not fix them?”

  “Hey, I’ve never been part of this rite before.”

  She looked me in the eye, more seriously. “You do mean just this rite, do you not? You mentioned a wife…”

  “No, I’m not a virgin. Wasn’t one, either.”

  “I was about to call you a liar,” she said, smiling again

  “Good thing we clarified that. Is the rite over already?” I asked

  “Yes, it is,” she admitted, and her smile grew lazy and catlike.

  “So what happens next?”

  She reclined on the stone and stretched luxuriously.

  “What springs to mind?”

  We dressed in the late afternoon/early evening. I estimated I had a little under an hour before some personal incineration effects started, not counting the fireworks of the afternoon. Not a lot of time, but my main goal was to get Tamara home quickly and find a spot to crawl into a body bag. Bronze was only too happy to show off; we shot over the landscape, dodging trees, while Tamara whooped in delight.

  I rather enjoyed it, myself.

  Bronze came to a halt in front of her house and I dismounted, then helped Tamara down. She kissed me again, rather firmly and not at all quickly. We lingered like that for minutes. Maybe hours. Could have been days. It was a while, anyway, before we came up for air.

  “Have you time to come inside?” she asked, holding my hands and smiling.

  “I would like nothing better, actually… but I do have duties to the baron, which I have been neglecting. But,” I added, as disappointment clouded her features, “I can work quickly when I see a need, and Bronze can make any trip seem short. Perhaps I might visit again soon?”

  “Whenever you wish,” she replied, smiling once more. “If I am not here, I am at someone’s field or farmstead; it is a long trip into town to see the wizard on poor day.”

  “Ah! Thank you for the reminder. I have sick and injured to help tomorrow. Any advice?”

  “Pick the hardest ones first,” she answered, instantly.

  “Why not get the easiest ones first? I can get more of them.”

  “The easy ones do not really need your help, and they will siphon away your power so that you cannot deal with the ones who do.”

  I nodded. She had a lot more experience at that sort of thing than I.

  “Good call. I’ll do that.

  She regarded me for a long moment, amused. “You are a deliciously odd fellow. I think that’s a good part of why I like you. Few men would bother to ask for, much less listen to, a woman’s advice on anything.”

  “Really? Why not? It’s good advice.”

  She laughed and pushed me gently away. “You don’t even understand why I find that attractive, do you?”

  “Um… no.”

  “Oh, go home and get ready for a long day. Tomorrow will be taxing.”

  “As you say.” I kissed her forehead and climbed aboard Bronze. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “I hope so!” She threw kisses at me, I caught a couple, then turned Bronze’s head toward Baret. I didn’t go far, maybe a mile, before finding a spot well off the beaten track and fairly secluded.

  “Guard,” I said to Bronze, as I unrolled my body bags and climbed in.

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 2ND

  Shakespeare once wrote something to the effect that troubles come not in single spies, but in battalions. It never rains, but it pours. When it hits the fan, it scatters all over.

  I got back to Baret shortly after sunset; they opened the gate anyway. R.H.I.P.

  Once back at the manor, I checked my chambers; nobody there. Nothing sprang out to try and eat me, either, so that was okay. I found a few messages: Peldar had set off for the northern border, an emissary from Telen had arrived earlier that evening, and the baron was pleased with his new toy—please find enclosed a token of appreciation, etc.

  The token was a sheathed dagger. Nice one, too; someone had gone to some trouble to make the hilt go with Firebrand. I unbuckled my swordbelt and affixed the new sheath on the right, then buckled it on again. I regarded myself in the mirror and rather liked it.

  Feeling good, I went out for the evening and used my tendril-wing technique to nibble at the life of a city—and to get ready for tomorrow. I built up quite an internal charge in preparation, but most of it wasn’t going to be useful; only a tiny fraction of that power would “leak over” into my daytime reserves. But I was fairly confident I could handle, or at least help, anybody who asked. I might not be the best wizard of the world, but I have a lot of knowledge the rest do not. I don’t cast out evil spirits; I kill microbes. Things like that.

  Just because I had a heavy charge of power, though, I decided to fiddle with the dagger a bit. Enchanting it was not on my mind; besides, what would I enchant it to do? But it wouldn’t be too unreasonable to bind some of that power into the metal. It might even be useful during the day, like a battery of magical energy. Couldn’t hurt to try, anyway. So I experimented, and it seemed to work.

  Firebrand watched. It was the first sign of interest I’d seen in a purely magical operation. Maybe it was thinking about having a baby brother. I don’t know. What do flaming swords think about? But it just snoozed again afterward, apparently happy with the results.

  So, with a light heart and cheerful spirit I settled down with a few magic books to wait out the dawn and relax.

  I’m glad I rested. I was given the morning off from Davad and my daily beating, but it was only so I could wear myself out more thoroughly.

  People have so many different ways they can fall apart!

  I was shown to Eriador Plaza, a marketplace area, and I set up shop with a sizable crowd already gathering. Lame, sick, injured, all of the above—they were a filthy, scabrous, sorry lot. I looked them over and started work.

  I rapidly discovered that even little healing spells are tiring if you do them often enough. And some of these were not little. A broken wrist isn’t an easy thing to fix; it’s an intricate arrangement with lots of moving parts. Fortunately, there’s usually a spare, mirror-imaged, available for comparison. So I was working harder than I had anticipated, and was glad I’d fed well the night before.

  I handled bigger problems, as Tamara suggested, and they really took a lot out of me. Finally, I got an idea. I started making healing spell frameworks for the smaller problems. Sort of a guideline, a blueprint, for the patient to power. Much like the bird helping Geva, the patient helped himself—I just provided a guide and framework for his own energies. I did have the forethought to make them delicate. A day or two of use, even at a low level like that, would have them come unraveled and end the spell. But that should be plenty for most of these cases. A broken bone was a bit more demanding on the patient, and I made the spell a little more durable to give bones a chance to get the jump on healing up. And drink lots of milk, you—eat lots of cheese, and have a piece of chalk with lunch.

  Sickness was simpler; I just told the patient’s body to get busy on invaders. You, white blood cells! This is what you’re after! Hup-hup-hup!

  It pretty much guaranteed the patients were going to be constantly hungry for the next day or six, depending on the problem, but there’s a price to pay for anything, I guess. The sad thing was that most of them were already hungry from a trip into town for Wizard’s Day. Life on a farm ain�
�t easy, even around here.

  There were lots of them, too. Infection was a common theme. It isn’t exactly a sanitary job when you’re shoveling manure. One lady had been clipped by a cart—apparently it had rolled backward when the horse was unhitched—and had her foot crushed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for cobbled streets and wooden wheels. That took a bit of time and some fiddling with the bones. I also had a sizable crowd of spectators pushing to get close and watch.

  I cheated. The spectators, being mostly healthy and not doing much, got tired of watching after a while. Of course, more came over as some drifted away, and eventually they got tired, too. It sure was nice of them to have such concern for the health of the poor, that’s certain. And to volunteer—all unknowing—to help out the wizard. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but it was effective and for a good cause.

  It was late afternoon when I closed up shop; I’d run out of walking wounded to fix. Anybody left in or around Baret who was hurt either didn’t think it worth the time to come down to the wizard or was too ill to be moved. Either way, it wasn’t going to be today; I was tired.

  I mounted up on Bronze and found I felt good. Tired, but good. This morning, the plaza had been crowded with people who were miserable, sick, or hurt. Now there were just people. I felt like the Statue of Liberty. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…”

  I decided I could live with that. I took a tour down to the river outlet to check on the water wheel. The idea on that was simple; a water wheel would turn a drum around which the sludging chain ran. This would drag along the bottom of the pipe, helping to scoop silt down and keeping the pipe clear. This water wheel looked more like the paddlewheels of a riverboat, since it was mounted above the flow. It looked like another week might have it tested. I’m still wondering about the gear ratio. If it’s too slow, I guess I can change it later.

  I discovered I was more tired than I’d thought. I yawned while I watched the construction, then headed back to the manor. A hot bath, a good dinner—I had a brief break for lunch; black bread, milk and cream, two apples, some cheese—a change of clothes, and a quiet evening fiddling with spell principles. That was the plan.

  Of course, my plan was ruined.

  I made it in the door just in time for the porter to inform me that dinner was being served in the main dining room; the baron was expecting me.

  Muttering curses and even the occasional epithet, I stalked to my chambers. I still didn’t see any sign of Shada; it occurred to me to wonder where she was off to. No way to tell right now and no time to go looking. I stripped, ran a wet cloth over myself, dressed in fresh clothes, and slid downstairs to the dining hall.

  The baron nodded to me as I entered; I took that as a signal to join him. There were several people at table, mostly the ranking servants—head butler, stablemaster, etc—and the captain of the house guard. Things seemed rather informal tonight.

  “Ah, the wizard joins us,” piped up one fellow. I didn’t recognize him. A guest, I assumed; it turns out I was right.

  “Yes, the wizard joins you,” I replied as I seated myself at the baron’s side; it was the only empty chair at the table. “I apologize for being late; there was quite a crowd in the plaza.”

  The baron nodded. “There always is. How did it go?”

  “Tiring. Very. But I think that most of them will recover in a day or two. The broken bones will take longer, of course, but should all turn out fine.”

  The guest arched an eyebrow and openly regarded me. I looked him over in return. From what I could see, he was dressed in riding clothes that had never seen the road: puffy blouse and shiny boots. Too much lace and frill at the chin and wrists. He also wore a plum-colored coat of what looked like satin. Worse, his light-brown hair was long and carefully curled. In my own world, he would have looked at home in the French court during the later Louis. In the present day, he’d have belonged on a movie set or a posh gay bar. Here, I wasn’t sure what to make of him.

  He spoke again, regarding me. “You are so certain, then, that you have repaired all the ills and hurts of the people, wizard?”

  Why do people keep using that tone? Do I need to brush my teeth more often, or is it my deodorant? Maybe I have “treat me with contempt” tattooed on my forehead?

  “I am not certain,” I replied, trying to sound more formal. “I have merely done my best. I have confidence that the ills and hurts of which you speak will fare better now than if I had done nothing.”

  “Such faith in your abilities,” he observed, smiling. Oily. “Have you no faith in the mercy of the Lord of Light?”

  I felt cold. I recalled a message from Ander that an emissary of the Church was on its way…

  “I have great faith in His mercy,” I lied, “and in His wisdom in giving men wits to use and hearts that are moved to pity. Where is your faith, priest—that He guides us all to do right?”

  Things had grown quiet while we spoke; apparently, it’s always interesting to have a wizard and a priest at the same table. The baron looked amused.

  The priest smiled. “Of course. It is sometimes the work of evil, however, clothed in the guise of good. Is it pity that moves you, wizard, or is it desire for power and fame?”

  I pretended to think about it. I could turn that around on him, or…

  “Good question. I’ll give it thought.” I turned my attention to the food. Well, I was hungry.

  The baron chuckled. “I told you that Halar was as close to an honest man as I’ve seen, Lothen.”

  News to me. Gratifying, too. I wondered if he meant it or if he was just trying to keep the Church off his wizard’s back.

  I hate politics. And here I am, holding a political office. Maybe I should go back to teaching. I could find a few likely kids in Baret, take them as apprentices—I doubt I’d have much trouble convincing their parents—and open Halar’s School of Wizardry.

  I miss being a teacher. Applied sciences are fun, sure, but I like classrooms.

  While I was having this idea, Lothen frowned. “But is he honest with himself? Perhaps he should come to the temple and be cleansed of pride and greed.”

  “If that is his choice,” the baron replied, and I could hear warning in his tone. I kept eating and listening, trying to figure out what there was between these two. Both the food and the conversation were important to me. Pity I couldn’t focus solely on either. Lamb. Nicely broiled. Good sauce, too.

  “Of course, I would never dream of sending anyone to fetch him,” Lothen replied, smoothly. “I merely suggest it for your lordship’s consideration.”

  “He’ll be there when he chooses to be—no sooner. I will not mandate any worship within my barony.”

  Lothen did not seem happy about that.

  “I feel certain your lordship does not mean to say that the worship of infidel gods is also permitted practice within his barony?” Lothen asked, sweetly.

  “What matter is it to me?” the baron asked. “If they pay their taxes and obey my laws, they can worship the swill of the pigs for all I care. Their souls are yours if you can claim them; their bodies belong to me.”

  Separation of Church and State. Lovely! Doubtless full of friction, too. And where there is enough friction, one finds heat, sparks, and fire.

  “It is common practice,” Lothen said, slowly, “for the subjects to follow the worship of their ruler.”

  The baron nodded. “I know.”

  “And the King worships at our altar.”

  “So I am told.”

  “Does it not, therefore, behoove his vassals to follow in his footsteps?” Lothen inquired.

  “Certainly. And to blunt your rather unsubtle point, I do. But I am a man of arms and I rule my realm. I leave the matters of the gods to the gods, magic to the mages, fields to the farmers, and fish to the fishermen. Tend to the souls of those who will follow you; that is your sole proper concern. Trouble me no more with this.”

  Lothen met the baron’s gaze for a long minute. “O
f course, baron. The Church is always pleased to find it need not trouble itself about the rulers of any region.”

  “And it is good that the Church does not trouble me within my barony.”

  There was a long silence at the table after that. The baron called for music, and musicians started to play. I kept an eye on Lothen, noting he had a good diplomatic face; he ate without a trace of discomfort or concern. The baron was not much behind him in that area, either. I hoped I was being just as subtle and mysterious while wishing for a mirror. But mainly I was glad I could eat without worrying about being subtle, cagey, or cryptic.

  The way I see it, Lothen tried to push the baron around a little, just a test, and the baron responded with a smack in the chops. Either the baron has something against Lothen as a person, dislikes taking sides in religious matters, resents the Church’s power, or is just unwilling to risk being a puppet ruler. Judging from Lothen’s outfit and bearing, he wasn’t a fighter of any sort; that wouldn’t earn him any points with the baron. Offhandedly, I would guess that Lothen was just disliked. But the other possibilities wouldn’t give Lothen any kudos.

  The baron broke the conversational silence.

  “Where is your wife, Halar? I had hoped she would join us.”

  “I am not certain, my lord. I’ve been out all day and didn’t see her in my chambers. Shall I hunt her up?”

  “No. No matter. I was merely curious.”

  Lothen asked, “You are married, wizard?” There was that tone again, when I was feeling punchy and tired.

  “Yes I am, priest.”

  Lothen smiled again, almost smirked. I wanted to hit him. With a brick.

  “You may address me as ‘prelate,’ wizard.”

  “Thank you,” I snapped. “You may address me as ‘Master wizard’ after asking permission to speak.”

  The baron turned to look at me; so did the rest of the table. If I’d dropped a knife it would have sounded like a girder.

  Lothen tsked. “Such disrespectful behavior. I am surprised that you tolerate it, baron.”

  I cut the baron off before he could answer. “I show respect to those worthy of it, priest. So far, you have been a poor guest—both pushy and rude to your host.” I turned my head and addressed the baron. “Such a discourteous guest! I am surprised you tolerate it, my lord.”