by Garon Whited
Which left me with an afternoon to kill and various anxieties and insecurities to nurse.
Aha! I have a few vague ideas for dealing with Johann, but it would be wise to do some bench testing on my spells. They should work without too much trouble, but if I can minimize the time and trouble—make things go more smoothly—then that was all to the good.
Huzzah! Another distraction! But this time, one yielding material progress in its results. I hope.
The sun went down, I died, I cleaned up—I’m starting to love my ring—and I went to meet the magicians and the elves. A quick demonstration of the Coffin of Elf Creation and we had a wet, naked copy of Bob lying on a stone slab.
I noticed in passing that clones don’t have souls. They have vitality, yes, but they don’t have anyone in there. This troubles me. I’m not sure, precisely, if Bob can… what’s the word? Raise it? Educate it? It’s alive, yes, and somewhat drugged when it’s fresh out of the clone tank. Maybe it acts like a newborn—a really big newborn—when it’s awake. If not, maybe it can grow an elf-spirit—or a soul. Again, that brings me back to the question of whether or not human souls would turn into something resembling an elf-spirit if given a couple thousand years.
It’s also possible Rendu created elf-spirits as part of the elf bodies. They may not have the capacity to develop a living spirit. Clone tanks, of course, can’t grow a soul; they only grow biological stuff. If the bodies, left on their own, can’t develop something like a soul, the elves are still screwed.
But I mentioned none of this. If Bob gets an elf-clone and tries to spiritually mature it, either by educating it as a newborn or by mystically transfusing a partial spirit into it, we’ll find out the practical answers. Finding a solution to the worst-case scenario is another story entirely.
As for Norad and Morrelin, Morrelin drew the short straw. Actually, they discussed it and decided since Norad was the necromancer and dealt with this sort of thing, he would monitor the process with me. Morrelin would get to try on a fresh meat suit.
It worked. The magical slab located all the mounting points inside Morrelin’s body, ran connecting lines of power to the major junctions in the elf-body, and started to pull. He moaned in pain and tensed up, fists and teeth clenching. I adjusted the spells, lowering the tension. This didn’t need to be a soul-ripping sort of experience. A gentle touch would serve much better. Perhaps it would be best to point up that fact.
“Now, here’s the problem,” I lectured. “It lacks the capacity to rip the soul out of anyone. Right now, it’s simply attached to the spiritual lines of power binding a soul to the flesh. The next step is to release the soul from the mortal body. I recommend a bleeding wound, something to kill him slowly, preferably painlessly, but certainly without a sudden shock. That should make the transition as gentle as possible.”
“There are certain poisons, Dread Lord, which may weaken the bond between the flesh and spirit,” Bob offered.
“I imagine there are. If they’re not innately lethal, it might be a comfort to people trying this. I’d be hesitant, though, to leave behind my empty shell of a body if it was still functional. T’yl? Norad? Morrelin?”
The overwhelming consensus was to kill the original body in the migration, or shortly afterward.
With that, I drew a fingertalon along the inside of Morrelin’s wrist, careful to get the artery. Blood flowed freely, crawling all over my hand and disappearing. It takes a while for someone to bleed to death this way, even with my odd blood-attracting properties. Morrelin winced at the injury and suppressed his impulse to panic. Norad and T’yl were right there, watching keenly, which helped him keep calm. After a few minutes, as the blood loss took hold, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness. His soul started coming loose, drifting to the side, drawn gently across on the lines of power to the other body. Point by point, it linked into the major energy centers in the elven meat suit while I watched the program run. It worked, as I knew it would, but this was the easy part of the program.
As the major connections linked in, one by one, a lot of the lesser ones surrounding each mounting point linked in to their respective micro-mounts at the same time. I hadn’t expected them to join up so quickly and easily. Was this process different from T’yl’s soul transfer because it was coming from a living body instead of a stasis? Or because it was a First Elf rather than a hybrid? Or did the slow, gentle transition help with the transplant? Could his soul, unwilling to depart and looking for anything to hang on to, be working to settle itself into a new body?
Anybody want a research grant? I know an amateur necromancer who would love to know, but doesn’t have time or inclination to experiment with it.
After half an hour, it looked as complete as it was likely to get. The necromantic tables of soul transfer had done their part. The rest was for Morrelin and his new body.
“He’ll need a little bed rest,” I told everyone. “Also, daily practice with his new body, that sort of thing. He’s got to break it in, get used to it. He’ll be clumsy and uncoordinated until he learns to use it. Ask T’yl. He’s an expert on this part.”
“We shall see to his care,” T’yl assured me, voice shaking. Norad nodded frantically, hands tightly clasped together, eyes wide. I think I impressed and frightened the professional necromancer. Bob and his two hybrid cohorts were less easy to read, physically, but their spirits were horrified. This was dark art. Black magic. Soul-stealing, body-possessing abomination that the elves regarded as evil.
I felt strangely good about that.
“Excellent. Now, the next one is for Bob.” I nodded in his direction. “Are you ready to take one with you?”
“If it pleases you, Dread Lord, I would prefer to make arrangements for the transport and quartering of our new brother before he arrives.”
“Of course. I don’t have one ready just now, anyway. I thought I’d ask. How long do you need?”
“If I am to take possession here, I can be prepared in two days.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Remember, he’s full-grown, but much like a mortal baby. You may need to experiment a bit to figure out how to keep it alive long enough to learn to even feed itself.”
“We shall bend every effort,” Bob assured me.
“Good. T’yl, I’m putting you in charge of the soul-transfer slabs and the elf-creating box. Remember, Bob is supposed to get every other elf.” I looked at Bob, then at T’yl. “This is a guideline, not a rule. If either of you don’t need or want another one—too many elves being raised, or no magicians willing to risk it—then don’t keep the other one from getting more. It’s not about who gets more. It’s about sharing—everybody gets some.”
“Yes, Dread Lord,” Bob agreed, placing his hand on his chest and bowing. His two hybrids did the same.
“As you say,” T’yl replied, nodding.
“Good. Any questions about this?” I asked, gesturing at the tables. There were none, but everyone in the room shuddered inwardly when I directed their attention that way. I think the twin tables of soul-sucking horrified them. Everyone agreed they were useful, certainly, but liking them was out of the question. It’s hard to like a gadget designed to drag souls out of the flesh, I guess. Maybe I just don’t have the right perspective.
“If you think you need me, ask Beltar. He can act as arbitrator if you disagree, or he can get the Lord of Shadow to send for me and I’ll adjudicate no matter how annoyed it makes me. I trust everyone understands?” There was a great deal of understanding in the room. “Good, good. I’ve got to run. Things to be, people to do, places to see… or have I mixed those up? At any rate, goodbye.”
I made my escape and went to change clothes. Meeting Tort was best done in a nice outfit, preferably an older one. Armored underwear, yes, because I always wear it, but for my outer garments, a lot of things a little girl named Tort saw me wear. A dark-green tunic and breeches, with red, orange, and yellow knotwork for the trim and piping. A tabard to throw over it, in the same colors, but w
ith a solid red circle taking up most of the field, containing a stylized dragon on its back, black, with a great sword of fire, in gold, thrust downward into it. No crown hovering over the sword hilt—not now. Add to it a black sash and another swordbelt, my new-ish cloak, and a quick polish to my boots… Nails chiseled down? Fangs clean? Hair combed? Face scraped smooth? Yes.
Do I go in wearing human illusions? Or do I go in as the monster? She’s seen me in both guises for the past nine years. She’ll recognize me, either way. I’ll go with the illusions. It might be considered rude to show up wearing a disguise, but I’m trying to be less the Demon King and more me. If anyone will understand the difference, Tort is the one. Well, Bronze, yes, but Bronze is, in some subtle but real sense a part of me. She doesn’t count as someone else.
I met Bronze in the geode room. She flicked an ear inquisitively, asking if we were finally going.
“Yes. It’s time to visit Tort.”
Bronze liked the idea and thought it was about time. I tried to agree wholeheartedly and failed.
First off, activate the scrying mirror. Scan back to those coordinates. Find the hacienda. Good. Lights are on, so people are still up and about. Fly over, above the scryshield. No garden party, no large groups of people. It appeared to be a quiet night at home.
Unfortunately, there were no handy arches outside the scryshield. I wanted something close, but there simply wasn’t anything close. The only nearby building was the stable and the doors were smaller than I liked. This was going to require some brute force.
I wonder. Would it be worthwhile to have some sort of mechanical device for this? Say, a spring-loaded set of unfolding metal rods, or some advanced memory-metal. Open a very small gate using the brute-force method, causing the small gate to manifest in two locations at once. Immediately shove the gadget through, let go, and close the small gate. The gadget goes sproing! or twang! or whatever such gadgets do, unfolding and turning into a suitably-sized arch. Then I can use it as a target point for a larger arch without having to brute-force it. I could even enchant the gadget to be a beacon, tuning it to whatever arch I’m about to use, further reducing the power requirement and enhancing the accuracy.
I suppose I could build one. I’m not actually required to go visit Tort tonight, after all…
No. No, I’ve stalled enough. I’ve missed her, I’ve goofed around, and I’ve feared this meeting. I’ve had it on my mind, or in the back of it, along with Johann for quite some time. This one I can do. Johann, I’m not entirely sure about. Johann will kill me if I don’t kill him, so I have to face him as the last thing I do. Tort won’t kill me, but seeing her might hurt more than Johann ever managed.
I can do this. I have to do this. I’m going to do this. I have spoken.
Brute force, then.
Crystals glowed as I laid my will on the archway. The mirror’s image flickered into the arch and flushed away, swirling into the distance. The far end rushed close rather than snapping into place, as though the archway stretched into a long hallway before retracting. The result was the same: It finally settled into place. A breeze came through the arch, bearing the smells of warm dirt, incense, and water. The smell of night-blooming flowers was faint on the breeze.
Bronze and I stepped through. The archway stood behind us, now. As I let go the spell, it crumpled inward on itself, twisting in a whirling spiral, and vanished into the distance. That’s not the normal effect when a gate closes, but normally I have a gate at both ends. I suspect the visual was much the same—crumpling in and spiraling into the distance—no matter which way one viewed it. If I looked at it from the side, it would probably still look as though it vanished directly away from me.
Don’t ask why I think that. I just do. Call it an intuition.
I walked along the offshoot road—the driveway? —to the house. Bronze followed, her head over my shoulder. We crossed the line of the scrying shield without incident, but something detected us. Even my cloaking spells couldn’t prevent it. They block detection magic of various sorts, but this didn’t detect me. The alarm detected a penetration of the magical perimeter, a subtle but important difference.
It also detected Bronze, which annoyed me considerably. I’ve been hiding me so well, but not her. I really have to get her an upgraded version of her stealth spells. Let me see… silence and traction on all her pastern-bracelets was doable, although complicated. That still leaves active detection spoofing, passive detection spoofing, an aerodynamic shield, a gravity-bender, and an inertia damper. Can I cram those into her pastern bracelets, too? I doubt it. It’ll be complicated just to find out if they’ll work in conjunction or if they’ll interfere. Or… hmm. Can she wear a magical gem as though it’s mounted in her hide? Maybe if she changes shape to form what looks like a halter, we can put a decorative crystal or four on it. Come to that, I suppose we could mount some on the built-in saddlehorn, or elsewhere on the saddle…
“Remind me when we get back to the mountain, will you?” I asked, quietly. Bronze nodded and nosed me in the middle of my back, pushing me forward. Bossy horse.
Three steps led up to the door. She stopped there and urged me on. I climbed the steps and pulled on the cord. Something inside chimed.
I’m pretty sure this is not what relationship counselors call “commitment,” but I sure felt committed. Possibly the need to be committed in a nice, quiet rest home for the mentally ill. Fortunately, I lacked the ability to be physically ill from nervousness, which saved the residents of a flowerpot from a fate worse than death.
Somehow, this feels like stopping by my date’s house to pick her up. It’s the same sort of nervous anticipation. I should have brought a present. Typical. Thinking only of myself, again. Then again, a present could seem like an attempt to buy forgiveness when I apologize… How would Tort take it? I don’t know these fiddly little cultural details! I’ve never gone on a formal date in Rethven!
You’re not just talking to yourself, Boss. You’re babbling to yourself.
Mental babbling: Check.
Thanks, Firebrand.
Calm down. She worked like a spider on a web to get you sorted out.
She also vanished forever, or tried to, I countered. I’ll be nervous if it suits me!
Oh, it suits you, Firebrand replied. I was about to ask what it meant by that when the door opened.
The man inside was the same one I saw when I was stalking the place. Spying on it. Doing surveillance. He was on the short side, slim, with grey salting his dark hair. He wore the same outfit, too—presumably some sort of formal livery for Kamshasa. It wasn’t a skirt, but the legs of his dark-blue trousers were so wide as to make the difference difficult to discern. His shirt was more tight-fitting, with a wide, open collar and long, billowing sleeves. Decorative ribbons tied his sleeves in place around the wrists.
“San kimsayn?”
Damn! I forgot my translation spell!
“Do you speak Rethven?” I tried, and added in the appropriate tongue, “or do you speak one of the Old Imperial dialects?”
He shook his head and pointed at his ear and mouth. I nodded.
Firebrand? Since I’m a man and about to work magic, please lie to him and tell him I’m about to activate a magical translation device.
No problem, Boss.
His eyes widened, but he didn’t step back. I cast my spell with a minimum of gestures and a maximum of words. It’s a lot easier to build a spell when you can use your hands to guide the lines of spell structures, that’s all I’ve got to say.
“Can you understand me now?” I asked.
“Yes. You are not from Kamshasa.”
“You are correct.”
“I must ask who you are.”
“I am an angel come to visit the lady of the house,” I told him, using the Rethven arhia, meaning nice-guy spirit, rather than arhela, or spirit of primal forces. Tort called me by both terms, but I was shooting for the former.
“Please come in,” he invited, apparently taking
me at my word. When a man shows up on your doorstep and claims to be an angel, I guess you invite him in. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. He stepped back and to the side. I went in and he closed the door behind me. He bowed slightly and added, “The house offers you water.”
Well, expletive deleted.
Firebrand?
He expects you to say “I am the recipient of the lady’s generosity.”
Literally?
I’m trying to work with your translation spell, Boss. You say that, he hears what he hears.
I repeated it. He bowed slightly again and gestured me toward a small room. The room had a shallow trench in the floor with water flowing through it, a seat, a basin, and cloths—the tropical version of a “mud room,” I suppose, where one could clean off the worst of the dust and sweat. He left me there and went away.
Once again, I’m out of my depth with alien customs. What the heck was the greeting all about?
I’m not sure, Firebrand admitted. He does it as a ritual, not with understanding. I think it’s a thing where the guest admits the house saved his life from the desert? Not that this region is any too desert-y, but it’s the custom?
Maybe it started that way. It might merely signify gratitude at being let in, nowadays. Or maybe just locally. The Shining Desert is farther south, and Kamshasa occupies a chunk of it. Maybe it started there and spread.
Could be, Boss. He didn’t seem as ecstatic as you’d expect if you’d admitted to a life-debt. Just moderately pleased at your manners, you filthy unaccompanied male.
Seriously? The man answering the door thinks I’m a filthy unaccompanied male?
It’s how he was raised, Boss.
I didn’t have a good answer to that. Instead, I magically brushed away what dust I accumulated from the short walk and regarded my lack of reflection in a mirror. They make good mirrors in Kamshasa. This one was about head-sized, delicately framed, and had almost as few ripples or distortions as it did vampire reflections.