by Garon Whited
I really need to work on my self-control and rational behavior. Keep a grip on my already-frayed temper.
Salishar pushed back from the table and rose. She stepped out from behind the table, knelt, did her crossed-hands-in-front-of-face-thing again, and departed.
With both pivot doors closed between me and the corridor, I finally let go a piece of my frustration and rage.
Torvil came in, pushing the massive door open with one hand, the other hand carrying a tray with a bottle and two glasses. He paused for a moment and took in the situation. I ignored him in favor of working on a healing spell for my hands and feet. They were still throbbing painfully and my hands were bleeding from the abrasions, but none of my bones were broken. Maybe I’m tougher than I know.
He righted a chair and set the tray on the seat.
“Sire?”
“Present,” I admitted.
“I apologize for taking so long.”
“Think nothing of it. The meeting simply didn’t go as long as I thought it would.”
Torvil eyed the pieces of the table. It was mostly in large chunks.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “It’s stone. The mountain will absorb it and make a new table. A couple of days, tops.”
“As you say, Sire.” He picked up a piece of one of the vertical supports, about the size of a small headstone, and fitted it in place. The mountain was paying attention; the pieces joined together. He played with the jigsaw puzzle of the shattered table for a bit, deliberately not pressing me on the matter. He seemed to take the destruction in stride. I wondered how often he witnessed the aftermath of the Demon King’s tantrums. The Demon King would have a much shorter temper, of course.
“Several times,” he replied, when I asked about it. “They never involved his own blood, though.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“I don’t have to, Sire, and I wish I did.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“So am I. But this is nothing. It’s only stone. And not even wasted stone, as I can see from the way it’s sticking together. Hardly worth mentioning. And I won’t.”
“I know, and I thank you for it. You’ve always been someone I could count on, Torvil. All three of you guys.”
“You’ve been sorely missed, Sire, even though we saw you every day.” He sat on another of the surviving chairs and poured wine. “Drink?”
“Normally, I do not drink… wine,” I misquoted, “but today it sounds like a great idea.” I took the cup and slugged it down. It was as awful as I expected, so I tried one of my new sensory-diminishing spells. The wine still tasted awful, but at least it was a diluted awful instead of concentrated.
“How else may I be of service, Sire?”
“I need to talk to Lissette.”
“I’ll have someone put it in motion.”
“Good. And have someone come get me when it’s time to have… Corrin? The wizard.”
“Corran.”
“Right. I’m going to have lunch with him. Set it up and send someone to get me when it’s time.”
“Where will you be, Sire?”
“Right here,” I said, and poured another glass of that awful stuff.
“As you wish, Sire.” He bowed and backed out.
I practiced brooding. It’s a requirement for immortal bloodsuckers, I’m told. It’s in all the brochures.
Am I a dark and tragic figure? Or am I merely some pathetic fool? Do I have to be strong enough to endure days of torture and helplessness and simply shake it off? My body can do it, sure. What about the rest of me?
A bottle of wine, a dark room, and some time alone with my thoughts seemed reasonable.
“Sire?” Torvil asked.
“I heard you coming. It’s these doors. They really do make a nasty grinding sound, don’t they?”
“I suppose so, Sire. They do not seem overloud to me. May I ask why it is dark?”
“I didn’t feel like light, so I turned off the lighting spell.”
“Of course, Sire. Are you sober enough for lunch?”
“Make a note, Torvil.” I snapped my fingers and the ceiling lit up again. “I can drink a whole bottle of wine and barely feel it. Either my liver is much stronger than I thought or some other metabolic change is involved.”
“Duly noted, Sire, if not understood. I’ll have someone come in for the shards of the bottle.”
“The mountain is already eating them. What’s for lunch?”
“Dazhu, venison, baked chan fish, and a variety of things I don’t pay attention to. Plants. Rinella has prepared several different dishes. Laisa and Seldar both advised her regarding the appetites involved.”
“Smart lady, whoever she is. Is she in charge of the kitchens?”
“That’s debatable,” Torvil admitted. “Laisa seems to have prior claim, but Rinella is the better cook. They seem to have some personal arrangement, but I’m not paid enough to take sides in that war.”
“Probably safest. Show me to wherever I’m supposed to be.”
We walked together. People stepped aside as we approached, bowing heads until we passed. It reminded me of something in Egypt, with the pharaohs… something about the Pharaoh being a descendant of the sun-god, I think, and how normal people weren’t supposed to look at him. I’m not sure how it applied here, exactly. Maybe people don’t look into the darkness lest it look back? Nietzsche, anyone?
Torvil showed me to a dining room. Similar table design, but smaller, more intimate—about the size of a small dining room table instead of a conference table. Two servers were already there, waiting to pour wine, bring dishes, or remove plates. Corran rose as I came in, levering himself up from his chair with his staff.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing, still leaning on his staff.
“Corran. Please, be seated.” I took my seat as he did. Torvil took up station behind Corran, a fact which did not escape his notice. He bit his lips rather than say anything.
Lunch was served. A dozen different things hit the table within a minute, all of them steaming. No doubt they were delicious. I dialed down my sense of smell and taste and started in. Corran followed suit. I figured to get through a couple of servings before talking. He struck me as the sort who would like to eat before getting down to serious discussion.
Once we had appetizers down and entrées in front of us, I started.
“I understand you are the head of the Wizards’ Guild in Karvalen.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied. Torvil grunted from behind him. Corran hastily added, “Your Majesty.”
“How does it relate to the Wizards’ Guild in Rethven?”
“Majesty?”
“Do you answer to Thomen? Or is there a guild council of all the masters of the guild? Or is there a chief wizard in each city’s guildhall? How does it work?”
“With respect, Your Majesty, you are not a member of our guild.”
I made no immediate reply. Instead, I thought and ate. Corran returned to his food, but seemed more conscious of my presence. Kind of like poking the sleeping bear, if you do it, you want to know if you woke it.
It wasn’t good for him that I was already in a bad mood, possibly even in a fragile state of mind. It increased the risk of a sudden removal of vital organs.
I caught myself wondering if I could reach up under the ribcage and get a better angle on removing the heart. Down the throat, while visually impressive, is awkward. Under the ribs, though, might be quicker and more efficient. It’s certainly quick for the victim; blood loss on that scale is measured in seconds. On the other hand, the liver is much less well-protected. It’s larger, though, so it takes multiple handfuls…
“Corran,” I said, “I think we need to establish something.”
“Your Majesty?”
“I’m the King.”
“Of this I am aware, Your Majesty.”
“Moreover, I know Thomen is having an affair with the Queen.”
Corran didn’t react, other than to s
hift his expression into neutral. He also stopped eating. His eyes searched my face as I paused.
“I don’t care,” I went on. “Whatever Lissette wants to do, she can. She’s the Queen. It’s her job to rule in a just and wise manner. My job is to smite for the good of the realm whatever she deems needful of smiting. Are we clear so far?”
“I… yes, I believe so, Your Majesty.”
“Good, good, good. Now, on a personal level, I’m also a dark and terrible thing that will bite your eyes out and burn you slowly to death if you fail to serve my interests.” I finished by extending around fourteen inches of tongue, wrapping it about the food on the end of my fork, and drawing the bite back into my mouth. Nothing says “dark and terrible thing” like a tentacle-tongue. My teeth, aside from the fangs, are somewhat subtle.
I returned my attention to my plate, cutting small bites and chewing carefully. He didn’t resume his dinner. Maybe I put him off his appetite. I let him think for a few minutes before resuming.
“Now, Corran, another question or two. Who established a formal Guild of Wizards in this kingdom?”
“You did, or so I am told.”
“I did. I was there. I remember it. So, who does the Guild owe its existence to? And who does Thomen work for? To whom does he owe his allegiance?”
“The… the King and Queen.”
“Right. And, like a noble in our service, those under him also owe their allegiance to the King and Queen, yes?”
“Yes,” he admitted, reluctantly. Torvil shifted a bit, making some noise with his sword and belts. Corran added, “Your Majesty,” in a hurry.
“So, when I ask you a question—about the structure of the Wizards’ Guild, for instance—if you fail to answer it, or try to lie, or even attempt to mislead me, that’s treason, isn’t it?”
Corran did not reply. I didn’t press him on it.
“Torvil? What’s the penalty for treason?”
“To be bound in chains in a cauldron of oil, slowly brought to a boil, Sire. However, under the law, any crime punishable by death may be commutated to serving the King as dinner, at your discretion.”
“Good to know. Now, Corran, one last question before we resume our conversation. Who frightens you more? Thomen? Or me?”
Corran leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. As he rubbed the fingertips together in small circles, I saw small discs of power forming between them.
“Don’t do it,” I advised. He stopped.
“Do what, Your Majesty?” he asked, innocently. Torvil drew his sword, silently. Corran didn’t notice.
“You say I’m not a member of the Guild. You may be under the impression I’m not a wizard. If that’s the case, you haven’t paid attention to history and legend the way you should.” I flicked a finger at the small discs of magical force, shattering the beginning spells.
“I see,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I did not believe the legends. You’ve demonstrated no magical talents, only powers—like a sorcerer.”
Torvil growled behind him and laid the flat of the blade on Corran’s shoulder. Corran’s eyes opened like terrified sphincters.
“Obviously, any being with innate abilities can be compared to a sorcerer,” he added, hastily. “I apologize if the comparison is unflattering.”
I picked up my eating knife and snapped it in two. Corran stared at the broken metal. It wasn’t a piddly little thing like civilized diners use, but a real, solid knife. I snapped it easily, like breaking a pencil. Not our best steel, obviously. Too brittle.
“Now listen to me,” I hissed, leaning forward, glaring across the table. “If I were still the Demon King people accuse me of being, you would already be dead and your soul screaming in agony for my amusement. Those were sharp little things you were conjuring; I could easily take your gesture as the beginnings of an attempt on my life—treason. You’ve tried to evade my questions about Thomen and the Guild—also, potentially, treasonous. I suspect you of trying to hide your knowledge of Thomen’s involvement with the Queen—an attempt to deceive the King. Do I need to state the obvious?”
As I spoke, Torvil gestured sharply, a disruption spell that caused various magical functions on Corran to either pause or simply break. He then snatched Corran’s staff away and made a warding gesture to keep him from connecting with it magically.
I keep forgetting the Big Three are combat wizards as well as masters of physical mayhem.
“I’ve had a very bad week,” I went on, “so my temper and patience are both short. I gave Thomen official standing. I made him head of the Wizards’ Guild. I made him Court Wizard. I can turn him into ground pork and feed him to the stray dogs in the street if it suits me—and you with him, if you keep jerking me around. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied, white-faced.
“Here is what you are going to do. You are going to Carrillon as a messenger, sent by the King. You are explaining, in person, to Thomen. He’ll talk to me via mirror and we’ll compare what you tell him to what I tell you. If I find you’ve lied to him about any aspect of our conversation, I’ll fry your liver and then tear it out of you. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty!” he answered, trembling.
“I’ll be calling Thomen in the morning.” I snatched his eating-knife out of his hand with a gesture, then turned my attention to my food.
“Your Majesty… how will I get to Carrillon before morning?”
“Wizards are supposed to be clever,” I countered, not looking up. “Get out of my mountain. Now!”
Torvil pulled the chair back with a sharp jerk—Corran included. Corran reached for his staff and Torvil held it away from him. Corran hesitated, as though he considered arguing, but obviously realized how much good it would do to argue with a faceless pile of armor. He left in a hurry.
I sat back in my chair, suddenly very tired. My hands were shaking. That was brutal, unpleasant, and emotional. Maybe I’m brutal, unpleasant, and emotional even when I’m consciously trying to be calm and rational.
Yeah, it’s been a very bad week.
Torvil nodded at the ladies standing by to serve. They took away used dishes and replaced them with new courses. They moved very carefully, as though putting food bowls down while the tiger was busy ripping flesh off something else. One of them removed the snapped knife. Torvil put the staff in a corner and reinforced his blocking spell before speaking.
“What do you want done with this, Sire?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’ll deal with it, then.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be so… I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“On the contrary, Sire. Something has obviously gotten out of you. He’s not screaming in agony while you chuckle and bite pieces off.”
“Fair point. It’s still not how I wanted this to go.”
“You mentioned you were tortured.”
“Yes.”
“It can make a man short-tempered, Sire.”
“You don’t sound as judgmental as I expect.”
“I’ve seen far worse things done by your hand.”
“So have I,” I whispered. “So have I.”
Talking to people obviously wasn’t a good idea. Torvil followed me around in silence. Let the kingdom fall; let the world end. I was in no shape to make good decisions.
Instead, I went to my sand table’s display of the spy-satellite-spell results and looked it over. It wouldn’t find Tort for me, but it would give me places to look, which I call progress. Right then, I’d take any sort of progress on anything. I needed something to go right for me.
No… I take that back. A lot of things have gone right for me. I’m incredibly lucky, both good and bad. Objectively speaking, a lot of things have worked out in my favor. At the moment, though, I wasn’t feeling objective, and I needed to feel as though something was going right.
As with so very much in my life, the sand table was the very picture of
ambivalence.
The world was laid out for me. Mountains across the width of the world formed the southern boundary. The edges of the world ran north from there, eventually curving inward like a square with two corners hammered off. Ice fields and snow occupied the northern half, farther from the path of the sun. A band of land, all around the edge, restrained the great ocean. In the west, it was the Western Sea, but it curved as it went south, becoming the Southern Sea. Hundred, possibly thousands of islands dotted it in a long, wide footprint leading to a narrower place, near the middle of the world. The waters widened again to the east for thousands of miles before the ocean veered northward again, heading into the ice—presumably the Eastern Sea. All of it the Circle Sea, or the World Ocean, surrounding the continent of which Rethven is but a tiny part.
Does the ocean run under the ice, I wonder? Or is it frozen as solid in the depths as it is over the top?
The black dots and domes of shielding spells were heavily clustered. Naturally, there would be more of them in cities, fewer of them as the population density decreased. Many of the clusters were hazy, indistinct; they had too few scan pulses go through the area from too few directions. One thing for certain, the hazy areas were blocked by long-term scrying shields. Once a scan pulse went through an area without being blocked, the temporary thing came off the map and the actual geography posted to the display.
Lesser mountains, lakes and rivers, great plains, rolling hills, all the geography of a world stood before me, scanned and mapped and laid out over half the table.
The Mountains of the Sun, the southern range, cut the table’s display in half. They were a trifle fuzzy at their northern edge, where the Shining Desert met their feet, and the image resolution worsened rapidly at the edge of the range. It degraded badly enough and quickly enough so I couldn’t even find the Spire of the Sun. All the other geography, including the lesser mountain ranges, were clear and sharp within the limits of the medium—that is, somewhat grainy.