by Garon Whited
No, I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t. But it groused me—still grouses me—right to the very core. I like him, and Sir Bouger. All of them, in fact. Oh, maybe I would learn to hate some of them as annoying people, eventually, but they were all so happy. So very pleased to be free again and so very grateful to me for making it so. It made me uncomfortable, sure—but I liked them out of reflex.
What I did say was, “Are you sure? I’m a wizard. Isn’t there some sort of rule or something…?”
“Nothing so formal as a rule against wizards. You fulfill all the conditions, which few people, wizard or no, can do. You are a man of arms and you have performed a noble, even heroic deed. None may contest it, for you have succeeded where more than one knight has failed; you have been kind to those in need; you have been generous and courteous when none could lay claim against you for either. We choose to recognize you as a peer and so create you knight.
“There is precedent, as well,” he continued. “Knights have been wizards before, and wizards made knights. I mind me Sir Deviden, of King Gormar’s reign.” He urged the hilt toward me again.
I reached out and took back my sword. Well, it wasn’t likely I was going to leave it.
Cheering rose from everyone but Sir Raeth and Sir Bouger. They clasped forearms with me and clapped me on the back and congratulated me.
What could I do? I accepted their praise and thanked them, pointed out I didn’t feel worthy of the honor, and so on. They brushed aside my thanks as unnecessary, assured me no one worthy of it ever feels that way when a title is conferred, and so on. I could see they were determined and any protest I could raise, they would shoot down.
It was tempting to stay with them, but the sun was headed horizonward. They assured me all would be well with them and I ought to be about whatever business had drawn me past that tower in the first place.
“After all, a knight must sometimes make haste to fulfill his quests,” Sir Raeth pointed out.
Considering my quest to keep from frying in the sunset, I agreed with him, remounted, and kicked Bronze in the sides.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 9TH
The guards on the Eastgate were a little quicker to open up this time; I didn’t have to threaten to set anyone’s face on fire. I let them know to expect Sir Raeth and Sir Bouger in few days and they just shrugged. I wondered if the day shift would hear about it and resolved to hang around until I could see to it myself. Then I went down into town to see if I could find Shada.
It was easier than I’d thought. She was staying at a different inn, the Upright Flagon; it was quite close and her window faced the gate. When the gate screeched open, she threw on her clothes and came looking for me. I saw her as she was hurrying up the boulevard.
“Good evening,” I said, smiling, in my best Bela Lugosi impression.
She bobbed a curtsey. “Good evening. I trust that all went well?” I should know better than to try and be funny; she didn’t have my cultural background. I couldn’t say how many of her charming witticisms missed me completely; I didn’t have her cultural background.
“Close enough. Found a tower, got knocked on the head, killed some goblins, freed some slaves, got knighted, that sort of thing. How are things here?”
She shrugged. “Well enough. We have a room.”
I held out a hand and she swung up into the saddle. Bronze moved on at a walk.
“Splendid,” said I. “What are my chances of a hot bath?”
“Fair, if you’re willing to spend for it. Excellent, if you wizard the water yourself.”
“I’ll call up rainclouds and carve the tub from stone,” I answered. “It’s been a long time.”
“Well, you could use one,” she agreed, chuckling. “Over there; that’s our inn.”
I parked out front and handed Shada down just as it began to rain. Shada hurried inside. I patted Bronze on the neck and she nuzzled me. “Go on back to the stables, girl.” She tossed her head, mane ringing like wires, and swished her tail as she headed back. I wondered what the stableboy would think. I resolved to tip him well if I heard him scream.
Once inside, Shada explained I could rent a bath room. There was only the one, but at this hour it was probably unoccupied. I did so, pumped water, stirred it with Firebrand, undressed, and climbed in.
I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a hot bath so much in years. I’d rather have a shower any day, but the bath was a welcome luxury.
Shada merely shook her head in amusement and swiped my damp and filthy garments; I didn’t say anything about it, just hoped there was some sort of laundry or valet service to be hired. I sure wouldn’t want to have to wash the things. I shouldn’t have wasted thought on it; Shada took care of everything. She brought me clean clothes and a towel and left me to my bath.
It was some time before I felt clean. I made my way up to the room; Shada was already asleep, so I sat down and laid Firebrand on my lap, intending to have a few quiet moments with a sleeping sword-spirit.
“Do you not sleep?” she asked, softly. I started; I thought she was asleep.
“Sure I do. Just not much.”
“Why have you your sword out?”
“I was considering waking it up. I hadn’t meant to disturb you.”
“You don’t. Come to bed.”
I considered that. I hadn’t slept with her much; she usually had the bed in Baret to herself. But now we weren’t in Baret, and we didn’t need to keep up the pretense. I just hadn’t found the chance to discuss it with her. So should I open my mouth about it now?
Probably. But I’m not known for being wise—just clever. I leaned Firebrand at the headboard, took off my boots, and climbed into bed. She snuggled up against me and apparently went right to sleep.
I dropped off to sleep myself.
The eyes looked back at me from the sphere. Full of colors unnamed and inconceivable, they stared at me, through me, into my soul.
“What is more fitting?” I heard in my mind. I had no answer, for there was justice in it. A Devourer to devour the devourer. Consumer consumed. Hunter hunted.
“You failed me,” I said, listening to my voice from that deep place of my soul wherein I hid. I could not stand the eyes, constantly staring. I cowered away, hiding behind my faith, using it as a shield, while my voice replied with courage and strength.
“I did not. One of my lesser children found him,” It whispered.
“What? Where?”
“Baret. He was there.”
“Not in the City of Bones?”
“All those doomed to watch say that he has never come to it.”
“Why did you not tell me this?”
There is laughter in those eyes.
“I am not one of your priests,” they answer. “I do not serve you out of loyalty, but because I am coerced.” But the laughter is greater, the amusement both cold and vast. “You who have read all the books your Hand has hidden away, you who dares to call up the very things you oppose… you do not understand this?” The laughter is mocking me.
I listen to my voice reply, “I see your point. Very well. You say he was in Baret. Where is he now?”
“That I cannot say with surety. The nightlord slew the form of that which found him. He may have remained. He may have fled. I do not know.”
“Then send another.”
“They cannot stand the hated Sun. You must open the door again in darkness to call forth fresh servants.”
By day, yes, they would be reduced to ashes and vile odors, nothing more. To call up more of them would be no great thing; they cannot survive the Light. Yes, of course, call up more and send them off to kill or be killed. But it is exhausting work, and I am so very tired…
I must be muttering, or the eyes—the Eyes!—see my thought, for they answer.
“Your strength must be increased, I see. Very well. In the outer chamber there is a two-tined fork of reddish metal, set beside a jewel pendant of dark ruby. Wear the pendant. Use the weapon to execute those who are to be put to
death under your law. They shall go to their judgment, and their strength shall be lent to you.”
I hesitated.
“Surely,” the Eyes went on, softly, mockingly, “such a final service to the Church is more grace than they could ever expect? Is it not a blessing to be a martyr in the service of your faith? It is either that, or you must throw wide the door in the City of Bones to call forth an army.”
That was true. Yes. If they were to be executed, then their deaths might have some purpose, some meaning—to have helped in the destruction of a nightlord would surely count for them in death, give them a touch of some grace. Yes. Perhaps those traitors, the magicians that had once falsely sworn their loyalty to the Church! And almost anything would be better than to risk another opening of the Gate of Shadows. Horrors had departed the world through it, and a horror had already returned. No… not the Gate. Some sacrifices would have to be made… yes, it was for the best…
“Very well. Ready my servants and see that they understand their duty,” I heard myself say.
“What is it the command I shall give them?”
“To hunt this nightlord and to report all they discover.”
“As you command.”
“You are dismissed,” said my voice. The Eyes faded within the dark sphere, as I had hoped. I turned to go out, to seek the stabbing fork and ruby pendant among the ancient things of evil. They were not difficult to find, though the vault of the damned is vast. My feet carried me through the pedestals and racks, the displays and cabinets, as though guided by a higher power. Find them I did, contained under enchanted glass and crystal. I broke the glass and donned the pendant, then took up the weapon.
A dark, hideous strength coursed in my blood, and I knew I could summon whatever powers I needed. Whatever servants I might require. Anything I wished… Yes, this was a dangerous thing, a thing far too powerful for normal men to wield. Only I, who had the strength to bear such an awesome weight of responsibility, could dare its dangerous temptation.
I woke in a cold sweat. Well, I would have, if I’d been alive. In what I like to call reality, I just opened my eyes and slowly started to come back to myself.
I was still in the room, still in the bed. Shada was snoring slightly, on my chest; she reminded me of Bartleby, a cat that adopted me some years ago and liked to nap on top of me.
Obviously, I hadn’t been thrashing around in a nightmare. But the dream had been very vivid, very real. Have I become oracular in addition to semi-undead and magical? Or does that just come with the territory? Jon had mentioned in passing some things about dreams and true dreams.
“When you’re sleeping, your soul sorts out the day and sets it all in order,” he’d said. “It may lie to your mind, or your mind may lie to it, I don’t know. Fluff and nonsense wander around in those. But if you dream true, it’s your soul trying to tell you something.”
I lay there and thought about it. Possibilities ran through my head in waves while my mind swam madly upward, trying to get on top of the situation. I could just be oversensitive while I sleep, and this whole Devourer business the most powerful impulse out there to receive. I could be unconsciously reaching out to Tobias to read his mind. Angels of righteousness could be trying to influence me to do a good deed and kill the man—which I’m not entirely against, anyway. Someone could be monkeying around with my sleeping mind. I could be imagining it all.
Somehow, I doubt I’m imagining things. A devouring-type demon did show up in my rooms and try to eat me, after all.
The good news is that it should be close to impossible to mess with my head. I double-checked my brain bunker; the spell was as solid as I could make it, without a crack or flaw to be seen. So that wasn’t it.
Someone was trying to kill me. The Hand was the obvious choice. Oh, sure, I might have some other enemies—the Baron Baret, for raising such a ruckus in his town. Davad, for creating a dishonorable weapon. Even the captain of the Prosperina, possibly, for getting his ship sunk—but nobody with serious mystical muscle. The only enemy I could think of that employed magicians was the Hand.
Or did they? “Perhaps those traitors, the magicians that had once falsely sworn their loyalty to the Church!” Not much else was clear, but I recalled that phrase. Maybe things were changing.
My head felt fuzzy inside. I wasn’t thinking very well. Somewhere, there was the conviction the Hand was after me, and that Cardinal Tobias, Master of the Hand, was willing to go to any length to get me. He wanted me out of this world, even if it meant bringing in the Devil himself to do it.
So why was I having dreams?
Tobias didn’t seem the sort to send such things. I felt I was in his head during the dreams, a rider within, watching. The orbs scared him silly, but he didn’t let that stop him; he went ahead with using the Devourer because he believed it to be the lesser of two evils. And he would never agree to warn his adversaries about any plans he was making. He wasn’t the type. The first they would know of it was when they realized they were bleeding. If they had time.
So who did that leave? A traitorous magician in his service, as he suspected? Maybe the other magicians—the resistance that contacted me—were spying on him and trying to warn me.
Or the…
Devourer.
My mental bunker was proof against anything but the most powerful and subtle of spells; of that I was sure. It could be breached, but I doubted anyone could do it at a distance and without my noticing it.
But demons don’t do things the way mortal mages do, or so I’ve been told. Then again, neither do I, but the methods are useful. Jon wasn’t too specific about demonology other than to point out they’re powerful, dangerous, and unfailingly bad for you.
Still, the Devourer and I have some things in common. A resonance, a sympathetic link, if you will. I can’t argue I am a devourer of human spirits. If you want to get technical, souls are another matter, and I have no idea if I actually consume those or not. But the life essence, the living energy, yes; I feed on it in a magical fashion. For all I know, that’s enough to send me a dream. From a demon, anyway. From the mystical king over that domain.
It would suit the character of the creature, that was certain. I’d be willing to bet it was never told not to warn me. So it hands out nasty critters to the priest that wants them, lets them hunt me down, and warns me beforehand that they’re coming.
I wonder if Tobias sent the Hunt after me, or if that was an idea of his pet magicians? Did its failure drive him to the Dungeon of Doom and the demons in the orbs?
It’s going to be a long night, especially since there’s no way I’m going back to sleep.
The next morning I had one of the easiest transitions I’ve had yet. No major nastiness, relatively minor agonies—it was pretty mild. A sponge-bath and a change of clothes and I felt almost human.
It’s become my favorite play on words, okay?
Shada and I went down to breakfast and I told her the story of the Distant Line of Smoke and what I did in it; I altered a few details, since it was the common room of the inn. I did not, for example, mention the fact that I sucked the life out of an unknown number of goblins—I think I spotted about thirty or so, afterward—but said I had magically incapacitated them without going into specifics. Shada had raised an eyebrow, I flashed my fangs at her and nodded in return. She nodded sagely and went back to eating.
That was the only real caution I required; I was still wearing a monster of a sword and the other residents gave us a wide berth. I made a mental note to get another staff, or figure out a way to recover my old one; it was less eye-catching and good for storing spells—which I’d been lax in doing. Maybe Firebrand could hold spells? It was a magical blade, after all… I’d try it.
No, correction: I’d ask it.
It isn’t that I fear the blade—or whatever is in it—but I have a profound respect for anything that can generate temperatures generally reserved for hyperactive blowtorches and small stars.
Now, to demon
strate the differences in how Shada and I think: I was most impressed with being shot several times and going berserk; this indicated I had a lot of unused potential, which is always a good thing to know. One the other hand, it bothers me a lot to lose control like that; I like to have some idea of who or what I’m killing—I’d like to be able to decide whether or not to kill. Shada noted it and mentioned something about being more careful not to stab me by accident again. But when I got to the part about being knighted—she didn’t find anything unusual about Sir Bouger’s name; the word booger in English translates to thebbel in Rethven—she put down her spoon.
“Do you mean to say that you have truly been knighted?” she demanded.
“Well, yes. On the road, coming back. They both seemed to think it was a good way to say ‘Thank you’ after being rescued. I told you last night, when you asked me what I’d been doing, or something to that effect.”
“I never thought you were serious,” she replied. “Oh, my!”
I stared at her. “Oh-my-what?”
She made an exasperated noise. “Have you never…? Oh, leave off. You’ve no knowing of what must be done upon being created knight?”
I thought of Erik and of Donald the Black, back when I was in the SCA. I decided, in the present circumstances, I probably shouldn’t bring them up.
“No, I suppose not. Why? Am I doing something wrong?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But you have need of a red sash.”
“Whuffor?”
“Did you not see Baron Baret wearing a red sash?”
“Fairly often, yes,” I replied, thinking back. He wore one whenever he was formally dressed or going out of the keep, and sometimes when he was in casual clothes around the house. “I thought he just liked it.”