Mimir was not among the ancient or, if he was, his early centuries had been spent in places isolated from the small, loose-knit athanor community in the Mediterranean basin. Being fond of a certain aura of mystery, Mimir had never confirmed which was true. The Changer cared little. His instinctive feeling for Mimir had always been that the man was a liar—or if not a liar, what later years would call a showman.
This impression had persisted until the day that he first had learned what Mimir was willing to do to increase the knowledge at his disposal. It had been during a battle that would afterward drift into legend as Ragnarokk, a battle so terrible that no human could believe that it had happened, but in order to remain sane must believe that it was yet to come.
The Changer had been winging over the battlefield, a black raven with a wingspan of over eight feet. Around him, like ebon leaves stirred by the power of his wings, natural ravens soared, their deep voices quorking derisive comments on the bloody chaos spread as a banquet beneath them.
The sides were well-matched. Those who would be remembered in legend as the Aesir and Vanir included those then called Odin, Tyr, Heimdall, and Freya. Others have been forgotten, as that battle was their last.
Arthur was there as well, but he was not called Arthur then. He who had been Gilgamesh, Akhenaton, Rama, was known at this time as Frey, the golden prince of the Vanir.
Merlin was also among the forces of the Aesir, but he was not yet associated with Arthur. That would come later, after the debacle of Ragnarokk. At this time he was called Mimir.
Later, legend would name Mimir one of the Jotun, the enemies of the Aesir, just as Arthurian legend would give Merlin an incubus as a father. There has always been that about Mimir/Merlin, for all his wisdom, that is dangerous and untrustworthy.
The opponents of the Aesir were not the evil creatures that legend later counted them. They, too, were athanor, but they held a different philosophy than the Aesir/Vanir alliance.
Whereas the Aesir, following the council of Mimir and Odin, were largely content to deal with growing humanity as something like equals, interacting as councilors and guardians, remaining behind the scenes if they meddled at all, the Jotun could see no reason for this stealth.
Advised by the trickster Loki, they gloried in their difference from the human race. Where Odin and Mimir emphasized the similarities between many athanor and humans, the Jotun noted the differences.
The battle that had spread out beneath the Changer’s wings had been a living icon of this difference in philosophy. The Aesir fought mostly in human form, wielding weapons such as a human might wield. The Jotun shifted into fantastic, inhuman forms. There was Fenris Wolf and Midgard Serpent; there were giants of fire and of ice—and all of them had been athanor.
The Changer had striven alongside the Aesir, for his tendency toward caution led him to feel that the Jotun’s desire for open domination of humanity would eventually lead to trouble. Compared to the relative infertility of his kin, humans, even with their single births and high infant mortality, whelped young in litters. Anyone who has ever observed a plague of mice or rats knows that those who breed quickly overwhelm in the end.
Still, he had not interfered in personal combat. From above the battlefield he had watched as Thor and the Midgard Serpent had torn into each other. The latter was his sea-born brother. He had been pleased to see Jormungandr win this contest. Thor was a braggart and a drunkard.
And as he had dipped wing in congratulations to his brother, he had noted an odd figure standing in the shade of a great elm near the fringes of the battlefield. It wore a silver-grey robe with highlights of leaf green and runes of power embroidered into the fabric. The hood was raised, bulking strangely around the shape within. The cowl hung so low about the face that even his raven eyes had difficulty making out the face it sheltered.
Yet raven eyes, especially the raven eyes of the Changer, can be more keen than those of a normal raven or, indeed, those of any man. They penetrated the darkness of that cowl and saw that within not one but two heads sprouted from the scrawny shoulders of the figure within the robe.
The heads were not identical. Both were grey-haired with the grey that denotes wisdom, even among their unaging kind. The skin of one head was smoother than that of the other, bore fewer lines, fewer traces of weathering, fewer signs of grief or joy.
At a beckoning gesture from the robed one, the Changer had soared away. He was one of the ancient and not to be summoned like a pet or a servant, even when the summoner was Mimir, who even then was called one of the great sorcerers of their kind.
Returning to the battlefield, he shifted into an even larger version of his raven-self and plucked Loki from the field just when that one’s aid might have meant the death of Frey. From a great height, he dropped the trickster on a heap of rocks and believed him dead. Later, he would regret not having checked more thoroughly.
In the end, two heads or not, the counsel of Mimir was insufficient to protect Odin from his own death on the battlefield of Ragnarokk.
In recent years, Odin had taken to wearing his hair long and straight, cloaking one side of his face. Some said that he had lost an eye to an assassin and sought to conceal the damage. Others whispered darker things. Cunningly approaching from that blinded side, the Fenris Wolf swallowed the Aesir warlord whole.
After Ragnarokk had muddled to its bloody end, the Changer had swept from the skies, leaving his fellow ravens to feed with the wolves on the bodies of the slain. As an ancient, he took part in the conference to reset the balance of power.
Even the human legends of Ragnarokk do not claim a clear winner. Instead, legend says, the survivors stepped back from the affairs of humankind and the children of Lif and Lifthrasir populated a new Earth beneath a new sun and moon.
The reality was a little different. Loki was presumed dead (although this was later proven untrue), and the most powerful of his allies were either slain or, as was the Changer’s brother, Jormungandr, severely wounded. The Aesir were little better off.
Odin was dead, but Mimir remained. He raised up Frey, who had been stunned but not slain by the flaming sword of Surt, hailing him as a new ruler for their people, a champion of ideals, and one who could work both with humans and athanor.
Mimir discoursed with eloquence as was his wont, but, even more than that eloquence, what swayed the dissidents was the frightful rawness on one shoulder near to his neck. The rawness resembled the stump of a tree when the trunk has been shorn away. Those who knew what had dwelt beneath Mimir’s hood feared, with a base, primal fear of black sorcery, what he had done to himself.
Following Mimir’s nomination, Frey was accepted as ruler of a freshly forged Accord. Then the battle-worn and battle-scarred survivors had returned to their homes.
Rumors continued to spread, though, rumors that became accepted as fact. Soon everyone knew why Odin had worn his hair straight and long over one side of his face, knew what had been the price that he had paid for the counsel of Mimir: counsel that had won him his battle and his cause, but cost him his life.
Sprawled in a teak patio chair, the Changer remembers this and considers the possibility that Mimir has learned more wisdom over the centuries. Certainly Arthur has thrived and while there have been many wars, there have been no other Ragnarokks.
He will meet with Lovern, hear his council. Such is no great difficulty for him. After all, he hasn’t finished acquainting himself with the changes to New Mexico and, even if Arthur thinks that the knowledge remains secret, the Changer has learned that his prey now dwells a mere sixty-five miles away in the city of Santa Fe.
Arthur is anxious as the moment arrives to bring the Changer and Lovern together. He has not been a ruler of men and athanor these past centuries without learning to read something of their feelings, even when those feelings are masked by manners.
Clearly, the Changer does not bear Lovern any great respect or even admiration. Lovern, in turn, regards the Changer with that slight edge of insecur
ity that he brings, even this late in life, to his meetings with those athanor he does not overawe. Fortunately, there are few enough who have not learned to flatter the sorcerer. It is just Arthur’s luck that the Changer’s insouciant disregard for just about everyone extends to Lovern.
The five residents of Arthur’s hacienda assemble in the courtyard, a move that gives a home-turf advantage to the Changer, since he has been residing there since his arrival.
Viewing the damage the coyote pup has done to the shrubbery and to the outdoor furniture, Arthur is grateful for the Changer’s choice of residence.
The Changer is waiting for them in human form, his black hair loose around his shoulders. As part of crafting the Changer’s human identity, Eddie had helped him order suitable attire. The former dog coyote now wears a dark green cotton shirt open at the neck and blue jeans, the knees of the latter begrimed with the marks of puppy paws.
Sitting relaxed in one of the chairs, his daughter crouched between his bare feet, her nose wriggling as she catalogs the newcomers’ scents, the Changer looks scarcely less civilized than he does as a coyote—and far less so than he does as a raven. As often before, Arthur wonders how much of this is pose, how much is the ancient’s naturally protean nature.
When Lovern seats himself across from the Changer, the contrast is marked. Like the Changer, Lovern wears his hair long, but his hair is silver and gathered in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. His tidy beard and mustache are the same shade of silver-grey and his eyes an icy blue. Although his attire is casual, his off-white button-down shirt and khaki trousers are custom-tailored. Needless to say, he is shod.
The wizard wears several pieces of jewelry: a loose chain, a wide bracelet on his left wrist, several rings on his fingers. One of these, Arthur knows, holds a truthstone set low in its open silver band so that it can touch the wearer’s hand.
Truthstones are amulets of transient power and, undeclared, are considered a great rudeness. Arthur is willing to take this risk to confirm the Changer’s story. Lovern agrees, for he has always used his magic as would best suit his needs without concern for what offense he might offer.
Given what the wizard is capable of, this truthstone is a mild enough affront. The Changer might even agree.
Vera, seated to the Changer’s left, is charged with making certain that if he does take affront, the violence is minimized. Warrior maid, warrior saint, she is well suited to the job, although her hands are currently busy with weaving a pouch from beads, needle, and thread.
Eddie is, as ever, bodyguard to his King. His light sports shirt and khaki trousers could conceal nothing, but his wrestler’s shoulders and heavy arms remain weapons that cannot be taken from him.
Their casual circle of five—six if one includes the puppy—is shielded from eavesdroppers by one of Lovern’s spells, a neat little thing that replaces what is said with other words that will match the lip movements. Thus, not even a lip-reader could garner the truth of what is being said.
Clearing his throat, Arthur turns to the Changer. “I’ve filled Lovern in on the basics. However, I was wondering if you would tell him your tale yourself.”
The Changer nods. In that dry, throaty, almost growl of a voice, he recounts his family’s death and his investigations thereafter. Lovern listens, nodding sympathetically and asking an occasional question. He is too good to let on whether the truthstone reveals any falsehood, but since he does not speak a prearranged phrase to inform Arthur of deception, Arthur assumes that the Changer’s honesty (on this matter) is confirmed.
He feels vaguely relieved. It isn’t that he precisely likes the Changer, but he respects the ancient—and he had hated to contemplate what would have happened if he had been forced to challenge the shapeshifter’s story. Now all that remains is telling old Proteus that Lilith may not be the enemy he seeks.
Eddie takes his cue from Lovern. “Changer, I’ve been researching the information you brought us, and while it does seem to point to Lilith, I’m not certain that wily bitch would have left so clear a trail.”
The Changer frowns. “My late mate was a bitch—Lilith is a witch and a black one at that. Perhaps she believed that I would be slain with the rest.”
“I can’t buy that,” Eddie says, brushing a hand through his dark curls, his attitude casually brave. “She knows that you shift shape without preparation—you’re not restricted by a sorcerer’s rituals. Unless slain instantly, you would escape.”
Vera turns her solemn eyes on the Changer. “What type of rifles were the ranchers using?”
The Changer shrugs. “I don’t pay mind to such things. Hunting rifles, I think. Fairly light. It doesn’t take much to kill a little canine like a coyote.”
Vera frowns. “Surely, that wouldn’t be enough to kill you, even with a shot to the heart or head.”
The Changer neither confirms nor denies this. Wisdom dictates that only the braggarts give any idea of what their vulnerabilities might be. Arthur does not think that his silence is an indication that the Changer has detected the truthstone, just that silence is part of the ancient’s perpetual defense.
Vera continues, “Lil could not be certain you would be the first one found by the ranchers. In fact, they were lucky to get both of the other adults.”
Nodding, the Changer accepts this. Had his mate not stayed to defend the pups, and the yearling female been a bit more paranoid, both might have survived.
“So you are suggesting that Lilith was not the one who killed my family. Who then?”
“We don’t know,” Arthur says, bluntly, “but we certainly would like to.”
“I’m not letting Lilith off so lightly,” the Changer growls, and the pup echoes the menacing sound.
“I don’t expect you to,” Arthur agrees. “I only ask that you confirm her guilt before exacting retribution.”
The Changer’s gaze, ironic, unsurprised, turns to Lovern. “And I suppose that the sorcerer is about to offer me the means to do so.”
Lovern nods, somewhat stiffly. The Changer’s tone had been perfectly correct, but his inflection on the word “sorcerer” held something like a suppressed chuckle.
Arthur sighs. “Yes. Lovern has a few suggestions to make.”
King and councilors had agreed that immediately offering a truthstone might tip the Changer that one had been used on him. It is too much to hope that the Changer will not suspect, but if proprieties are observed, perhaps he will choose not to be offended.
Like the gentleman he is, Lovern smiles at the Changer. “I could interview Lil for you. We are both initiates in the sorcerous arts. She may speak more openly to me.”
The Changer shakes his head. “I’ll speak to her myself.”
“Then perhaps I could accompany you,” Lovern says. “I could act as witness.”
“That won’t do,” the Changer says. “You’re too closely associated with Arthur. I won’t have the King dragged, even by association, into my revenge. I wouldn’t have waited here at all if it hadn’t been for my daughter.”
His rough voice softens with unexpected affection. “She couldn’t fly with me.”
Eddie leans forward. “Then you know where Lil is?”
“I do.” The Changer grins. “Learned it here, but that phone number and license plate would have led me. I may not have your skills, but money can buy those who do.”
“True enough,” Eddie says, “and that is all the more reason to be suspicious. Why would Lil leave such a trail?”
“Yes.” The Changer picks up his daughter and strokes her ears, letting her gnaw on the knuckles of one hand. “I agree. I don’t want Lovern with me for the reasons I’ve given, but I wouldn’t mind a witness when I talk with Lilith. It may protect both of us in the long run—if she’s innocent.”
This is a bit of good luck for which Arthur had not dared hope. He makes a quick mental review of who is available.
“How about Eddie?”
“Nope. He’s like Lovern, too much one of your
s.” The Changer’s speculative gaze comes to rest on Vera. “Minerva—I mean Vera—might do.”
“She would?” Arthur says, surprised. “Why? She’s on my staff as well.”
“Yes, she is,” the Changer says, “but she has not been for long enough to acquire that intimate association. And she has a reputation for supporting justice… on most occasions.”
Vera colors. Her one romantic flirtation had ended disastrously when the man in question—a fellow immortalized as Paris son of Priam—chose another woman. While she had not reacted with the fury of her fictional counterpart, the experience had caused her to prefer judgments that were less subjective than those found in the interpersonal arena. In ages since, she had frequently served on the tribunal that dealt with the transgressions of her peers.
“I’ll go with the Changer,” Vera says. “That will save us the time and trouble of searching for another escort.”
“Thank you, Vera,” the Changer says, “for your help.”
He sets his daughter down, his body language suggesting that he considers the meeting over. Arthur clears his throat.
“There’s one other thing we can do for you, Changer,” he says quickly. “Lovern can create a truthstone for you.”
“Oh? Aren’t those things considered in bad taste?” the Changer asks, looking with amber-eyed innocence at the King.
Arthur tries furiously not to color. “They are. Its virtue will be short-lived and its warning will be most easily understood in relation to a direct question, but it could take some of the indecision out of your meeting with Lil.”
Scratching behind one ear, the Changer rather resembles his canine daughter. “I’ll take one. When will it be ready?”
Lovern frowns thoughtfully. If he deactivated it now, the one in his ring would be potent for some hours more, but he does not think that he should alert the Changer to its existence.
Changer (Athanor) Page 7