by Garon Whited
“You may have something, there,” I agreed, thinking hard.
“Kashmanir is hot and dry, but it gets good magical currents off the Sunspire. It makes a good place to retire for a magician. It’s a long trip, though, if you don’t use a gate. You have to sail around the Fang Rocks—a long stretch of jagged islands in the southern Circle Sea—or brave the Straits and risk the pirates that make the place their home.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I promised, and decided not to get sidetracked. I had a vague idea of what he was talking about, at least. “Okay. What next?”
“I’d say your schedule gets uncertain after that. There’s no telling how she’ll feel or how you’ll react or what you’ll think is the right thing to do—organic people are just so unpredictable.”
“You sure you’re not handing out godlike wisdom?”
“I’m sure. Even mere mortals have taken note of it.”
“Maybe I should save Tort as the last thing to do in this world.”
“That could be a good idea,” he agreed. “I’m not sure you’re going to like what you find. I know you’re not going to like Kamshasa.”
“Oh?”
“You’ll see. And, if you’re wondering, it’ll keep until you get everything else done.”
“You’re sure?” I asked. He regarded me with a sardonic expression.
“Yes, I’m sure. Tort’s situation is pretty stable. You’ll probably want to have Sedrick do some legwork in Kamshasa, though. Maybe he can nail down the address and brief you on the locals.”
“Good thought.”
“By the way,” added the smoke-face, nodding at something behind me. I turned around to see.
Several dozen people were already in the main temple area and more were creeping in, staring. Wide eyes, wide mouths, hands clasped to the point of white knuckles and fingertips. Expressions of awe and terror predominated.
“Busted,” we said, in unison.
It’s highly unlikely you’ll ever find yourself in a situation where you and a manifestation of your faith-amplified psychic copy are being slowly surrounded by a horde of worshippers and chanted at. If, by some chance, you do find yourself in such a situation, remember a few simple rules and everything should be fine.
First, don’t startle them. They’re having a moment. Let them. There’s no need to panic anyone. Stampedes, religious suicides, convulsions and speaking in tongues—okay, maybe there is a time and a place for each of those, but provoking them by accident seems like bad form to me. Stay calm. Stay professional.
Second, while they’re filing in, think about what you want to say. They’re going to expect something profound and deep and meaningful, as befits a Revelation from God. They’re going to want something life-changing, or life-defining. You might want to take a how-to course on motivational speaking if you think this situation might arise. Some self-help books might also be useful, mainly for the lingo and inspirational quotes.
Third, when you’re done, don’t have any qualms about laying down the law. When it’s time for you to leave, make sure they know you mean it and that there will be no fangirling, panty-throwing, crowd-surfing, wild grasping and snatching at your clothes, or other shenanigans. Be firm. And if that fails, sneak out.
At least, these rules worked for me.
People weren’t actually trying to come into the main temple area; they were pushed in by the pressure of the crowd behind them. Once anyone realized he was actually standing in the temple proper in the presence of his god, that person moved aside and found a seat. Presumably, the shortage of smiting encouraged other layers of people to come in more willingly. The place didn’t exactly fill up, but it developed a serious case of crowd.
This gave me time to think at my other self and discuss what to say. We argued silently about whether or not I could get away with boldly leaving instead of settling down and discussing a general statement of principles. The good news was I didn’t have to get it perfect in the few minutes we had. With the new smoke-signal communications, the other me could elaborate and clarify pretty easily.
As for what we wanted to tell them, we decided to keep things simple. The more complicated the requirements, the easier it is to screw them up. Simple, general statements, that’s the ticket. We went with the idea of a culture based on individual responsibility, a sense of personal duty, and the desire to be regarded as a decent human being. We didn’t lay out any commandments, just put the ideas out there as things to think about. Boiled down to the bare essentials, what we said was, “Be responsible, help others, and don’t be a dick.”
I’ve heard worse religious codes.
Having made my speech to the attentive crowd, it was time for me to leave. The Other Guy told me which priestly person to pick; I had him lead everyone in a song—okay, okay; a hymn. They sang and the smoky head grew in size while they sang. All eyes were fixed on that head while I ducked mine. I considered it a sufficient distraction and made a run for it—sprang straight off the platform and ran like hell down the corridor with Bronze trying to keep up. This amused Firebrand endlessly. I heard it laughing all the way out, the jerk. Bronze was more than a little amused, as well, but at least she didn’t laugh at me.
We made it into the corridor, skidded around the turn, half-fell down the ramp, powered up the other ramp, and burst out into the sunlight. I didn’t feel like stopping, so when Bronze came alongside me, I swung into the saddle at a dead run and she continued running until I was safely in the palace again. I don’t run that fast from blazing icons of religious force.
At least I now have some more confusion. I’m not sure if I hate being a religious symbol because I don’t want to be a god, or if it’s a case of not wanting so much attention. It’s one thing to teach a class; they’ll ask questions. It’s quite another to be laying down the Holy Law of Halar.
I can rip out a soul, strip memories out of someone’s mind, tear flesh from bones, blow up a planet, but I hate being the Source of All Truth. Power like that scares me. No, I take it back. Being responsible for power like that is what scares me.
Meanwhile, the ecclesiastical breakfast meeting was still in full swing and moving into lunch. If there’s one thing preachers can do, it’s talk. I left word with the people doing the feeding and watering that I wanted to talk to Beltar when they were done.
Next, I called Sir Sedrick and let him know what I found out.
“Elf-body immortality, hmm? That makes sense,” he agreed. “I assume it is preferable to nightlord immortality?”
“Depends on your point of view, I suppose. There are advantages to each. If all you’re after is eternal life, elf-bodies are perfectly acceptable. Have you found out anything else about T’yl?”
“From what I’ve been able to discover, asking around Arondael, T’yl was transporting himself magically—supposedly, he had access to some sort of gate. The last I’ve heard of him, he was going from the mountain of Karvalen to Vathula. He left from the mountain, or so I’m told, but he never arrived. Can a gate be intercepted or diverted?”
I opened my mouth to say it couldn’t, but had to re-think it. Once a gate is established, the link is stable. There is no way I can see to divert an established connection. On the other hand, if someone knew where to put the proper guide-spell, it should be possible to divert a link while it was still forming. I did it myself, by accident, when the Church of Light was trying to reach my universe. A scrying spell, reaching toward them, acted like a lightning rod for the gate spell, causing an unintentional connection.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is possible. Doing it deliberately could be tricky—it’s power-intensive and therefore requires precise timing. But if he was leaving from somewhere without heavy scrying protection, they might have seen him preparing a gate spell and intercepted it. Or,” I added, thinking further, “if they simply detected the scrying portal he was using to achieve a lock—assuming he did it that way—they could monitor it for surges… that would probably be easiest.”
“No, I don’t, but I’m told he’s not being mistreated—he is a fellow magician, after all. It might be good to let them know I know, and to mention I don’t mind them borrowing him as long as they let him come back periodically. I’ll send them a note. I think I’d rather you went to Kamshasa, someplace called Kashmanir, I think.”
“Is that where your Tort is?” Sedrick guessed.
“So I’m told.”
“How did you find all this out, anyway? If I may ask.”
“I asked a helpful godlike entity who takes an interest in these things.”
Sedrick looked at me with a puzzled expression. He started to speak, checked himself, started to say something else, checked himself again.
“You know,” he said, finally, “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“How do you think I felt?”
“If I can’t think of a way to respond to the concept, what makes you think I can imagine your feelings?”
“You are clever, aren’t you?”
“Professional Hero,” he pointed out. “Stupid Heroes die young.”
“Okay. Do you want to gate here, then gate to Kashmanir?”
“Yes, please, if you are willing.”
“I’ll get set up. You might want to leave Arondael, though. I’m not sure if there are any spells around the place that might interfere.”
“Shall I call you when I am outside the city?”
“That works. Thanks.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
I wandered down to the gate room and had a seat. While I was waiting, I called Bob. He answered immediately.
“Yes, Dread Lord?”
“Where are my sample elves?” I asked.
“I abase myself, Dread Lord. I have been preoccupied with the siege.”
“Oh? The Rethvan army?”
“The very same. They demanded passage on the Queen’s authority. They were denied on the King’s authority. Thereafter they attempted to force the gates and we repulsed them. They have been encamped outside our western walls ever since.”
“I see why you’ve been busy. Can you spare those sample subjects?”
“They will be in Plains-Port before the day is ended,” he assured me.
“Plains-Port?”
“The small town at the eastern end of the pass. It is a trading post between plainsmen and your empire. They are hesitant about approaching the Mountain of Fire and Shadow, so they go there.”
“Mountain of Fire and Shadow?” I repeated.
“Your mountain, Dread Lord. In their tongue, it can also mean ‘living and dying,’ as well as some other related concepts.”
“I see. Probably not a bad description, actually.”
“I tend to agree, Dread Lord.”
“I think I’ve seen Plains-Port in my magic mirror,” I observed, changing the subject. “I didn’t know what it was called.”
“It is my pleasure to be of service, Dread Lord.”
“Thank you for being so helpful, Bob. I appreciate it,” I told him. I thought I detected a faint flicker of puzzlement, instantly gone.
“Of course, Dread Lord.”
“And Bob?”
“Yes?”
“When we’re alone, or not being overheard by others, you can call me ‘Halar’.”
“As you wish… Halar.”
“Good. And I have not forgotten about Rendu or the moon. Have you had any time to research the Spire of the Sun? Or the House of the Heru?”
“I regret I have not.”
“Well, take your time. How long have we got before the sun thing becomes critical?”
“A thousand years? Ten thousand?”
“So, not this year. No rush.”
“My race is nothing if not patient.”
We signed off and I went to find a volunteer to deliver a note to Arondael. Turns out the Temple of Shadow has the Banners; they’re ideal for the job. They’re the negotiators, diplomats, and high-level messengers of the Temple.
In short order, I had three guys in formal armor—meaning they were wearing fancy stuff over it, like velvet tabards, identifying baldrics and badges, and so on—stepping through a gate near to Arondael while Sedrick stepped through it to me. The Banners had a very good idea of how to handle it. No threats, no pushing, not even a mention of consequences, just a polite presence asking when I might expect to have T’yl back. And, of course, to inquire as to their progress, if any, and was there anything I could do to speed things along? I miss my friend and all that.
They struck me as extremely smooth operators. I look forward to hearing how it goes.
Sedrick stood by, horse and all, while I got the mirror going. I had him look around the Kamshasa region until he finally found a place that looked right—that is, wasn’t too far from the province of Kashmanir. I opened the gate for him. I also made sure he was carrying a fairly heavy weight in cash. It wasn’t a reward for all his hard work; it was money for expenses. At least, that’s what I told him. He pretended to believe me.
I’ve also spoken with Seldar and Dantos to made sure they know he’s to be accorded every courtesy whenever he shows his face. They poor guy is going to have to suffer through having his every whim catered to whenever he visits.
Then I needed a volunteer to be tortured.
I already had an idea on how to hurt Johann, but I needed someone to help me with the experimental stages. I asked in the simplest manner possible. I found a bunch of grey sashes on palace guard detail and asked if anyone would help me out with an experiment involving agonizing pain.
It made me more than a little edgy when they all volunteered.
Every. Single. One.
I did mention the agonizing pain part. I made it very clear. It didn’t faze them. Their willingness to do whatever I needed made me feel guilty about asking for anything, much less something that was going to hurt. I tried my best to keep the agony down to a minimum.
What I wanted was a good look at the way pain receptors activate. I have spells for looking at all sorts of things, medically speaking, so this wasn’t too difficult. We started with simple blunt trauma, hitting hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to harm—and, in the case of these volunteers, not hard enough to evoke so much as an ouch. I tested a number of different pain sources—thumps, bumps, cuts, burns, everything I could think of. Then I ramped it up from minor ouches to serious pains—bone fractures, penetrating wounds, charred flesh, and so on.
None of these were large-scale, and always on an appendage. It was a safety thing. I’m not sticking something sharp through someone’s torso just to see how it hurts.
Well, maybe with Johann. That’s the point of doing the research. Preparation!
After each test, we damped down the pain and applied the appropriate spells to fix it. They’ll all be as good as new in a couple of days, not even a scar among them. I suspect they kind of regret not having scars to show for it. “I got this scar in service to the Lord of Shadows” sort of thing. Could be a badge of honor, possibly even a chick magnet, but what do I know?
Once I had my raw data, I set about duplicating the effect—stimulating pain receptors without doing anything harmful. With an example of what pain receptors look like when they’re not busy and examples of different pain receptors at various levels of activation, cobbling together a spell to activate them wasn’t difficult at all.
Did you know there are lots of different types of receptors? It’s not just one sensory thing. There are pain receptors for all sorts of different types of pain. The things you learn by looking closely…
The prototype spell wasn’t pretty, but it was a good proof-of-concept. I wrapped it around a stick and gently poked someone with it. I’m told it was about like stabbing him with an acid-spurting spear of ice set on fire.
Yes, I tried it on me, too. I think the description is perfect.
They seemed mildly disappointed when I finished. I think they were expecting to be boiled in oil, at least. Maybe flayed. Possibly staked in the sun and smeared with vinegar. I just don’t understand their kind of gung-ho attitude. Then again, I’m not particularly religious. Maybe I’m being too sensitive about the whole religious aspect of things. I don’t understand the gung-ho attitude of the Marines, either, but I respect them.
I fiddled with the spell, refining it and ramping it up for most of the day. I wanted to be able to smack someone and have a generalized wave of pain wash over everything, everywhere in the body. Making it work at a distance could come later.
It gave me something to do while waiting for Beltar, and I didn’t feel like poking my nose into Seldar’s progress.
I tested the refined version on myself, rather than a volunteer. I knew it was going to be a massive jolt of agony—harmless, in the greater scheme of things, but agony nonetheless. I didn’t ask for volunteers simply because I knew it would work. I wanted to know how well it would work.
A tenth of a second was much too long. Indescribably long. It lasted a tenth of a second and gave me flashbacks to Johann’s playroom.
I considered it a perfected spell and went to my bathroom to sit under a waterfall and shiver for a little while. The spell created a pure, undifferentiated sort of agony. Over time, I might get used to that, at least well enough to accept it, embrace it, and allow it to simply exist while I diverted enough attention to try and crawl away. The only trouble with the idea was enduring it long enough to get to that point. It hurt so much my heartbeat skipped a couple of times and ramped up to dangerous levels. It hurt so much I was ready to throw up. It was the most hideously evil thing I’ve ever built.
I didn’t want to feel it ever again, but I wanted Johann to choke on it, nonetheless.
It hurt, and it brought back all the things that went with my first real experience of being tortured. Hence my retirement to the bathroom and a little quiet time, alone.
Post-traumatic stress, maybe? How would I know? I’ve never had it before. All I know for sure is the pain brought back the memories, and that I did not care for.