by Garon Whited
“That does make me feel better,” Mary admitted. “How do you feel?”
“Much better,” Tianna said. I was relieved to hear it.
“Good,” I interjected. “I was worried about you.”
“I’m torn between telling you not to worry about me and being glad you do.”
“Your mother would only care about the second part.
“True, but she worries, too.”
“And I worry about her. It’s a family thing. I suspect it’s an inherited trait. The ones who didn’t worry about their offspring tended to die out.”
“That could be,” Tianna agreed. “I’m told you saved my life.”
“I helped,” I corrected. “It was a group effort.”
“Thank you for your part in it, then.”
“Anytime,” I told her. She looked around at the semi-ruins.
“What have you been doing?”
She seemed tired. I showed her to a handy rock and had her sit down. She didn’t argue, which told me she was a long way from healthy. Having never had my throat cut like that, I can only assume it’s an ordeal. Mary would know, of course, but I assume it’s easier when you’re already dead.
“Well, I thought I’d kill some time and help the mountain rebuild your outer worship area.”
“You do know it’s the Mother’s temple?”
“So? You’re the one using it. Besides, the mountain was going a little slow for my taste.”
“Yes. It has been somewhat less responsive of late.”
“I blame the damage during the invasion. Or,” I added, remembering, “it may have a fair amount of damage to undo in the far west, as well. There was an… incident… along the western King’s Road.”
“I’m not going to ask what you did.”
“If you don’t already know, it’s probably for the best.”
Tianna looked up at the pillars. They were intact, requiring only a little fill-in work. I had lifted Mary and Mary had placed the upper stones. The dome was going to be a bit tricky without actual ladders and scaffolding.
“Do you plan to raise the dome?”
“No, not really,” I admitted. “I’m just here to check on you and say goodbye.”
“You’re leaving? So soon?”
“I can’t stay. If the Demon King lives here, people will come for him—or want to follow him, instead of the Bright Queen. Besides, if I stay, I’ll eventually be the centerpiece in a holy war. I’m more than a little pissed off at the Lord of Light and would much prefer the world be a peaceful place.”
“I see. I’m not sure I agree, but I understand.”
“I’m glad of that. I’m not going far, though. You can call me whenever you like.”
“I will.” Tianna smiled up at me. “You’ll be back.”
“Of course.”
“Walk me inside?”
Tianna leaned on me the whole way, even though I’m not sure she needed to.
Before leaving, I checked in with Beltar, Dantos, and Lissette. Beltar and Dantos felt they had the situation under control. The Church of Light troops—what was left of them—were actively withdrawing. The forces in Karvalen, now united and organized, were hurrying them along. Dantos hinted about the upcoming troubles the enemy might have on their way back, now that the plains tribes knew they were enemies of Karvalen. That made them de facto enemies of the plainsmen, which meant they were fair game.
Seemed reasonable to me. If the plainsmen looted the bodies, the gata traders would give them a fair price for whatever they wanted to sell. I only hoped the gata traders didn’t do a lot of trading with the cities at the end of the eastern canal. I’d hate for them to get caught between two warring states.
Lissette was in a similarly good mood.
“I’m glad you could help,” she admitted, on the mirror. “I really wasn’t prepared for external enemies. My biggest problems have involved stabilizing things internally. You killed the major opposition to a Queen and left things in my hands, yet there has still been resentment and foot-dragging.”
“Do I need to stop by and repeat myself?”
“No, I don’t think it will come to that. Tyma has been surprisingly helpful at spreading the word about how I called for you and you came. We’re telling people I ordered the attack on the western armies and then sent you to defend Karvalen. Do you mind?”
“Your Majesty,” I told her, “you use whatever propaganda you see fit. Just let me know how I can play my part.”
“You’re awfully accommodating, especially for a former Demon King.”
“That’s because I’m not a Demon King, and I don’t want to be. You’re the Bright Queen, and you’re stuck with a tough, ugly, unpleasant job. If I can make it easier on you, I will.”
“As long as you don’t have to do it?”
“I’m too lazy and incompetent.”
“I shall keep my own counsel on that.”
“Probably best,” I agreed. “Is there anything you need from me now?”
“Not unless you want to have a harsh lecture with Liam.”
“What’s the matter?”
Lissette rubbed her temples and sighed, resting her elbows on the table, the very picture of a frustrated mother.
“He’s a handful.”
“Oh?”
“He’s the crown prince, he knows it, and he’s not afraid to tell people so.”
“Okay. Off the top of my head, I have a suggestion.”
“I’m listening.”
“Send him to Beltar. Let him spend a year in the Temple of Shadow as a knight-trainee. But you tell him he’s not going to be a knight—he won’t get a sword—unless he passes the tests of the Temple of Shadow.”
“You think it will help?”
“He won’t be treated like a prince. He’ll be treated like a mouthy kid who doesn’t know squat. It might teach him some empathy for the people he thinks are ‘beneath’ him.”
“I’ll talk it over with Beltar,” she replied, dubiously. “I want to know more about this before I decide.”
“Of course. It’s only a suggestion. And if you need me to show up to spank him, say the word. I’m never all that far away, not in terms of travel time.”
“You know,” Lissette said, looking wistful, “that comforts me. I recall a time before… a time long ago, I mean… when I loved you.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what to say.
“All those years ago,” she continued, “you were more like you are now, not the thing that sat on the throne. You make me remember who I was, way back when. I miss who we were.”
“Me, too. But time changes us all, for good or ill, in greater or lesser degree. Even the immortals.”
“Maybe especially the immortals,” Lissette corrected. “You see more of it.”
“Maybe so,” I agreed. “Call me.”
“I will.”
We signed off and I rubbed my face. Lissette was right. I missed who we were.
Mary met me down in the private gate room with her gear and mine. I noticed she packed my doll and toy horse. I was glad she did, although, for the life of me, I don’t know why.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Are we bringing all this stuff?” I asked, gesturing at the two bags, the suit of armor, and a chest the size of a footlocker.
“Yep. We can always pick and choose what to bring with us when we come back.”
“Presumably. So, where are we going?”
“I thought I’d let you pick.”
“I really don’t care.”
“Really?”
“I’m having a hard time caring about much of anything,” I admitted. “I’m sure the psych jocks have some sort of stage of the grieving process or something to explain it, but all I know is I don’t have a lot of motivation right now. It’s about all I can do to go along with whatever you want.”
“Poor sweetie,” she crooned, and hugged me. “I know. You’ve expressed your rage, but you’re not over your sadness.”
“I’d say that sums it up.”
“You have a right to be sad,” she assured me, pulling back and looking me in the face. “Don’t you worry about it. Now, come on. We’ll go visit Diogenes and he can give you puzzles to solve.”
“Is a distraction what I need? Or do I need to work through my depression by coming to terms with it?”
“It’s like wound care,” Mary advised. “We clean it out—you killed things, so you did that part—then we put a bandage on it so you won’t pick at it—that’s the distraction.”
“I’m… not sure it works like that.”
“It always worked for me. It’s better than sitting in the dark, beating yourself up over it.”
“That makes too much sense for me to argue it. All right. We’ll try it your way.” We moved all our stuff next to the gate and I locked up the room. The mountain fused the door into the wall for me. Opening the gate was more difficult than usual; interuniversal portals take a lot of push, and the power to be had in the surrounding crystals was minimal. It helped, but not much. Mary contributed, as well, and I zeroed in on the Apocalyptica gate.
The interior of the gate flushed away, snapped back, and we hustled through the opening as quickly as we were able. I was surprised at how long the gate stayed open. The magical charge on the Apocalyptica side was considerably higher than I expected. We made it through with a trifle of energy to spare—I didn’t even have to do any heavy lifting. Surprising. I closed the gate manually rather than let it run the last little bit of charge out.
“Good afternoon, Professor.”
I looked at one of the cameras monitoring the gate.
“Good afternoon, Diogenes. How are things?”
“No problems to report. A full briefing is available at your convenience.”
“Glad to hear it. Do we have somewhere we can use as a residence?”
“After establishing the cloning production infrastructure, I took it upon myself to undertake some of the higher-probability projects, Professor. Please follow the drone.”
A propeller-driven football floated up like a cross between a toy drone and a micro-dirigible. We followed it. A pair of tracked robots carried our luggage. Mary’s laser was waiting in the library, so she put it on and brought it with us. I found her attachment to the thing amusing. At least, I found it amusing until I passed the first weapons emplacement on the campus, reminding me this place was not safe. The momentary flashback to an ant hive was… unpleasant.
Diogenes is a tireless multitasker. I should expect it from a computer with such massive parallel processing. The campus was markedly altered from the last time I visited. The walkways were paved and leveled, the greenery trimmed, the buildings renovated and repurposed—or were in the process—and every intersection had at least two weapon emplacements.
“Wildlife still a problem?” I asked, eyeing what could only be a laser turret. None of the emplacements seemed generic; each was unique.
“Not here,” Diogenes assured me. “A wide variety of species have been catalogued and autopsied, Professor. Many of them are highly aggressive and dangerous to robot workers. Combat models are required for safety. Local armaments are precautionary, based on the reports of giant ants.”
“I’m not complaining,” I told him, hastily. “If you can stop a giant ant swarm, I’m all for it.”
“I do not believe the current defenses are sufficient for that, Professor. However, the armaments in place, combined with perimeter sensors, should permit adequate time to enter a defensive configuration and evacuate assets such as yourself.”
“You comfort me, Diogenes.”
“Such was my intention, Professor.”
“Well done, my faithful quantum minion.”
“A pleasure to be of assistance, kemosabe.”
The floating drone led us to what used to be an administration building. The interior still smelled like a ruin, but robots were still working on it. The robots had largely completed a number of suites in what was once a hardcopy file storage area of the basement. I was impressed. Diogenes managed lights, environmental control, and running water. Admittedly the décor was a bit mishmash, made up of only the highest-quality salvage, suitably cleaned and polished, but it was more than simply livable. It was comfortable.
“Diogenes?”
“Professor?”
“I love it.”
“I am pleased, Professor. You never had a smarthome, so we never completed your residential preferences list. I utilized the default settings and extrapolated where possible.”
“Brilliant work,” I agreed. “There are two things I need, though.”
“I am all attention.”
“First, I’d like a couple of mirrors. Yes, you are correct about me not having a reflection at night, but I find them useful for some magical purposes.”
“Noted. Do you have a size preference?”
“How about three of them, small, medium, and large? Will that be any trouble?”
“I have already catalogued a number of mirrors in salvage.”
“Thank you. The other thing is a lamp of some sort—not an electrical one. Something with an open flame. A candle will do.”
“You can have a candle immediately. There will be a short delay for processing a suitable oil for use in an antique kerosene lamp. Will that be sufficient? I do not presently have a ready source of flammable gas for a gaslight arrangement.”
“That’s perfect.”
“Always happy to help, Professor. If an open flame is the key element, do you wish me to install a fireplace or stove?”
“No, but thank you. A small flame is all I need.”
“Certainly, Professor. Please try the furniture. It has been specially renovated with your mass in mind.”
I sat down on the bed with care, then bounced on it a little. It didn’t creak, squeak, or crunch.
“What is this?”
“Concrete, steel, and an industrial foam.”
“It’s soft.”
“The mattress’ structure is mostly salvaged steel turned into different types of springs. A layer of recovered foam and plastic strips for weight distribution provide the primary load-bearing surface.”
I lay down while Mary put her laser away—she plugged it in to a wall socket! —and opened her closet. She cheerfully rummaged through several sets of clothes.
“I might be able to sleep here,” I admitted. “This is amazing, Diogenes. You’ve worked miracles with a ruined world.”
“It is a pleasure to have an ongoing project, Professor. However, I must remind you I have not actually done much in comparison to the world.”
“Take all the time you need,” I suggested.
Mary unbuckled Firebrand from me and took it away. I let her. For the first time in… a long time… I was comfortable and safe. None of the local gods were trying to kill me, the local life forms were held at bay, and the mattress really was perfect… and I was so very, very tired…
The wails of the dying are a choir of the damned, some infernal organ powered by the screams of souls. A hooded figure plays the keys and pedals, hands and feet in constant motion, and the music of misery rises through the cathedral of pain. It swirls between black pillars, echoes from the dark walls, draws shadowy glimmers from scenes of horror in the stained glass.
Save us.
The pews are filled with corpses, held in place by black, thorny vines, like barbed wire brought to twisted life. They sit or kneel in attitudes of prayer, mocking everything with their torn faces and rotting flesh.
Save us.
Candles burn in sconces on the walls, their flames still and straight as though afraid to move, shining with every color. Their feeble light makes the shadows black, crawling things, like thick mists or midnight seas, heaving slowly back and forth between the rocky isles of illumination. The candles weep tears of wax, dripping soundlessly into the darkness, falling forever into the hungry, empty places.
Save us.
I
try to move, but it is a struggle. My hand is seared and flayed, bloody rags of meat hanging from the bones. Frost covers it, like a corpse on a winter battlefield. I am flayed with fire and ice, scorched with war, frozen with pain, and even to move requires all my strength.
Save us.
Who is it that calls to me? Who begs for my help? Who screams with hidden voices behind the wails of the demonic organ? Are they real? Are they my imagination? Or am I only hoping someone calls for aid because I am desperate to be needed? What if I am truly alone?
But I am not alone. Someone is behind me, dragging me along the aisle of blackness, away from the infernal organ, away from the bloody altar. The inky blots of shadows clutch at me, sucking at me like a riptide, an undertow, trying to drag me back, but the strength of my savior—or kidnapper—is not to be denied. It is a terrible strength, a relentless power that defies everything.
I leave this cathedral of hatred, the church of misery, the temple of horror, dragged forcibly from it and hurled through the doors.
I woke up to the sunset, sweating and cold. This is another reason I don’t sleep much. I lay quietly, breathing heavily, waiting for my heart to stop.
Nightmares are less troublesome when your glands don’t shove panic-chemicals through you.
After the sunset and my shower—a shower. Not a waterfall. A shower, complete with needle-like jets of water—I wondered where Mary went. The football-drone was still sitting on a table, so I addressed it.
“Diogenes?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Where’s Mary?”
“The Dean of Knives is presently assisting with some magical operations.”
“Dean of Knives?” I repeated.
“Since you are the Professor, she asked for a suitable title.”
“Dean of Knives. Okay. That makes sense.”
“I thought so.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I do not know, Professor. I am not programmed for magical operations and my ability to extrapolate is limited by the available data.”
Which really got my brain in gear. Diogenes might not have the most creative of thought processes, but his memory is perfect. If I programmed a spell structure into him, could he duplicate it? It would require a lot of ancillary enchantments, including a power source, sensory spells, an interface of some sort so he could control the equivalent of robot arms and hands sensitive to magical forces…