Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  Anson crunches a bit of ice. “An ally in Louhi.”

  “Not enough. There are other sorcerers, even with Lovern imprisoned, who could neutralize her. There must be more.”

  “When we rescued Shahrazad,” Anson offers, “we were given a token made from her blood, spittle, and hair that would have enabled Louhi to slay her even at a great distance and to control her from a lesser one. They are taking the Changer’s blood. Perhaps they believe they can bind him in some similar way.”

  “That’s a thought,” Vera admits, “but I doubt we have the full picture.”

  She stares at her beadwork as if tempted to tear out more, then stops and adds another couple of rows. “I feel a desperate need to know more.”

  “Perhaps the Changer will tell us,” Anson says.

  “But will he share what he knows with us?” Vera says. “I admire him greatly. I’ll even admit to finding him almost painfully attractive, but I don’t trust him to realize that his needs and the needs of the larger group are the same.”

  “And do you think they are?”

  “I don’t know,” Vera admits. “Arthur has been badly shaken by the South American contingent’s rebellion. He hates when he must declare someone outside the Accord, and he nearly had to ask for them to be declared outside of Harmony as well.”

  “True.”

  Vera beads. Anson rattles his ice. Shahrazad whimpers, her toes twitching as she chases something in her dreams.

  Or perhaps it is she who is chased.

  The Changer awakens as the sun is westering. He lies on the bed in the house in Bernalillo. Listening, he knows that he is alone in the house.

  Painfully, he sits upright. His entire head aches; his lips are parched. The area where his right eyelid hangs limp over an empty socket throbs to the beating of his heart.

  Taking inventory of his resources, he realizes that he is too weak for even a minor shapeshift. Louhi may have taken only her quart of blood, but he has lost more over the night. It soaks the bandage wrapped loosely around the side of his face, crusts along his temple and mats his hair.

  His attempt to replenish the anticipated loss may have made matters worse by raising his blood production beyond the level his system could sustain with an open wound. Absently, he wonders if Louhi was careless or if the injury was deliberate. Given his capacity to heal, he is willing to believe the latter.

  Standing, he totters to the bathroom and re-dresses his eye socket with a folded washcloth tied on with strips torn from a towel he curses for its fluffy bulk.

  His suspicion that he was meant to bleed, if not to death, at least to incapacity, is confirmed when he finds the refrigerator stripped of every last item of food. Even the bottles of condiments are gone. The freezer is also bare, but in the back of an otherwise empty cabinet he finds a partial box of stale dog biscuits. These he softens in water and devours. He has eaten far worse.

  Unable to hunt, unable to shift into anything that could metabolize grass and weeds, he must wait until Anson and Jonathan return for him. The hours pass with glacial slowness. The phone is disconnected, so he cannot call for help. The drone of the television only makes his head hurt more.

  At last, he curls into a ball on the sofa, his head on the remnants of the shredded towel. He realizes the extent of his weakness only when he is awakened by the front door opening. Had it been an enemy, he would have been dead.

  But it not an enemy. It is Anson, followed by Jonathan Wong. Etiquette forbids comment on his state, but he can tell they are shocked to find him so pale, bloody, and weak.

  Reasonably, they should expect his condition, but reason does not govern emotions, and he is one of the ancients, the great shapeshifter who normally mends his wounds with a casual shrug. Even athanor are subject to their private legends.

  “Can you walk, Changer?” Anson asks.

  “After a fashion,” he says in a rough, dry voice that testifies to his dehydration, “but I would prefer to lean.”

  “Then lean on me,” Anson says, handing him a glass of water.

  “First, do you have anything to eat?”

  Anson pats his pockets and produces a candy bar, a partial roll of hard candies, and a stick of gum. The Changer all but grabs them and wolfs them down.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to swallow your chewing gum, Changer?” Jonathan Wong comments with a hint of a smile. “Let Anson get you to the van. I’m going to make certain no trace of you is left behind. From what I can tell, you bled pretty freely. We don’t want the homeowners calling the police when they get back.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the Changer hauls himself up on Anson’s bony shoulder, he sees Jonathan pulling on a pair of disposable surgical gloves.

  “First piece of evidence,” the lawyer says, plucking the torn and blood-splotched towel from the sofa. “I wonder if there are trash bags in the kitchen.”

  “There are,” the Changer says. “I couldn’t eat them.”

  “Still a sense of humor, old one? Good,” Anson says. “Now put your weight on me, and we’ll go out slowly. I have a box of donuts in the van and maybe a thermos of coffee.”

  The Changer considers asking him to fetch them to him, but an animal nervousness advises him to flee this place of pain—a place to which his enemies could too easily return.

  When Jonathan finishes, the Changer is sprawled in the back of the van, finishing off the donuts with a voraciousness that Anson watches in admiration.

  The portly Asian tosses a full trash bag into the back of the van before getting into the front passenger seat. “I had to take the bed linens. They were ruined. The mattress should be salvageable. Mostly, he bled into a pillow—which I also removed.”

  The Changer swallows coffee. “Thank you.”

  “A pleasure. It is easier to prevent an investigation than to derail one once it begins.”

  “Confucius say,” Anson chuckles.

  “Not in so many words, but yes,” Jonathan agrees. “I’m going to advise Arthur that someone should come back and treat the sofa cushions and mattress to remove the stains.”

  The Changer studies him. “I will owe you.”

  Jonathan bows slightly. “I do not insist.”

  They depart then, and, after a short stop at a fast-food place where Anson places an order that astonishes even the bored teenage clerk, they drive back to Arthur’s hacienda. The Changer cannot possibly devour everything Anson has provided, but he makes enough progress that he can patch the bleeding wound.

  “It was made with an enchanted tool,” he comments as he feels his body resisting the prompt to shift and close. “I cannot heal it completely—at least not quickly.”

  “Dr. Kocchiu…” Jonathan suggests.

  “No. I don’t wish anyone else to know how weak I am. Louhi will wonder whether her enchantment had power over me. She may even have spies watching our best healers. Leave her wondering.”

  Anson nods somberly. “He has a point.”

  When they arrive at the hacienda, Arthur, Eddie, and Vera come to meet them. Shahrazad wriggles from Eddie’s hold and leaps into her father’s lap as soon as the back of the van is opened, her tongue trying to bathe his wound in puppy kisses.

  “Easy,” the Changer says, but his tone is fond, not angry.

  He holds her with what firmness he can manage, and she, sensing his weakness, obeys, content to flop on his lap and be fed cold french fries.

  “You look terrible,” Eddie says bluntly.

  “I don’t feel very well,” the Changer agrees, “but let me sleep and eat, then I will tell you what I have learned.”

  Arthur nods. Anson briefed him via the car phone, so he already knows that Sven and Louhi have vanished once more.

  “There will be time enough,” he says.

  “I sincerely hope so,” the Changer responds. “I most sincerely hope so.”

  His smile is not a pleasant thing.

  24

  Dime con quien andas, decirte he quie
n eres.

  (Tell me who your friends are and I’ll tell you what you are.)

  –Cervantes

  The Changer sleeps the clock round and into the next day, waking only to eat with animal concentration and then to sleep again. No one, not even Arthur, dares to question him during his infrequent waking spells. There is something cold, and, if they had the courage to admit it, something desperate, in his single yellow eye.

  Shahrazad keeps vigil over her father, leaving only for twice-daily runs—the morning one with Anson, the afternoon with Arthur. Thus, she is the first to note when he awakens more in possession of himself. She does not think to notify anyone, so the Changer has time to stretch, compose himself, and inventory his injuries.

  He is not pleased with what he confirms. Normally, as long as he has the energy, he is able to shift his shape into one that is uninjured. Whatever Louhi has done to his eye socket is preventing this. He can shift shape, but the shape always lacks an eye. If he is not cautious, the socket begins to bleed.

  Growling, he devours the food left out for him and goes to sleep, this time as a coyote, delighting Shahrazad to no end. She curls next to him, half-guarding, half-cuddling.

  Vera, making a routine check, finds them thus, nods politely to Shahrazad, and does not disturb the Changer further. She suspects that he has heard her entry, but as he chooses not to acknowledge her, she does not press her company.

  Two hours later, he emerges from his room, human-form, freshly showered, and clad in jeans and a tee shirt. Shahrazad prances at his side, pleased and protective. They walk together into the kitchen and he systematically raids the refrigerator. While he is building a sandwich that seems to defy the capacities of a human mouth, Vera comes in.

  “I thought I heard you moving. How do you feel?”

  He angles his head to look at her from his one eye as if that is answer enough. Then he recalls that she has been kind to him: “Weak. Impaired. Angry.”

  “Reasonable,” Vera says, studying the sandwich with a clinical gaze. “Want me to get Shahrazad some of her kibbles?”

  “If you would. She’d prefer my sandwich, but I want her eating as well as she can.”

  “Oh?” Vera considers what this might mean as she fills a dish for Shahrazad.

  The coyote pup falls to as if this is a duty rather than a pleasure, but doesn’t refuse the food. The Changer eats with something of frustration in his steady chewing.

  “Will you sleep again when you finish?” Vera asks.

  “I don’t think so. Is Arthur available?”

  “He has asked to be interrupted whenever you would see him.”

  “Then tell him that I will be in the courtyard.”

  “Only Arthur?”

  “No. Whoever is here. I may as well tell my story only once.”

  Vera nods, her hand straying as if to pat him reassuringly. Remembering who he is, she aborts the motion and pats Shahrazad instead. Leaving the room without another look at the Changer, she misses seeing the small smile that lights his face.

  They gather quickly: Eddie with his computer to take notes, Jonathan Wong looking sleepy and fooling no one, Anson making himself popular with Shahrazad by dropping her pieces of his donut, Arthur leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and Vera, thoughtful and alert.

  Her gaze strays to a bird perched on the courtyard roof. Disconcerted, it decides to move on. Chewing on the edge of her thumbnail, Vera resolves to get Lovern’s wards reactivated.

  “I want,” the Changer says, his voice deep and gravelly, “to thank each of you for your assistance these past days. I am not accustomed to depending on the mercy of others. It was pleasant to discover it exists—even for me.”

  “You are in Harmony,” Arthur says. “That counts for something.”

  “So I have seen.” The Changer rubs beneath his empty eye socket. “You have waited patiently for my story. I have little enough to tell, but what I must tell has implications enough.”

  Eddie’s fingers stop racing over the keys of his computer. “Before you go on, Changer, tell me how you feel.”

  “I hurt,” the ancient answers bluntly, “more than I can recall since the days when we stopped warring on each other. Louhi was meticulous in taking only what she bartered for…”

  Jonathan Wong smiles ironically. “No chance of using Portia’s gambit from The Merchant of Venice against her?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the Changer says. “She took her quart of blood and the eye only, but she enchanted her surgical tool to leave a wound that will not heal—even with my considerable skill at such things. I cannot easily regrow the eye and, if I do not take care, I begin to bleed again.”

  Anson hisses angrily between his teeth. “You may not, old one, but I call that a violation of the trust.”

  “I forgot to forbid such,” the Changer says ruefully, “for it did not occur to me.”

  “A jury of your peers would be hung on this one,” Jonathan says.

  “The Changer has few peers,” Anson answers curtly, “even among us.”

  “Let’s not quibble,” Arthur says steadily. “The issue may never come to court if I read the Changer correctly.”

  “Your Majesty”—the Changer bows without rising—“you may try them if you wish. I plan to treat those who did this to me in a fashion that will remind all why me and mine are not toys.”

  “But did you discover why Louhi wanted your eye?” Vera prompts.

  “I did,” the Changer says. “When I went inside the house, I discovered that they had another with them.”

  “What?” Arthur says. “Athanor?”

  “In a sense,” the Changer answers. “In a sense. Jonathan, you and Vera are too young to recall the time we name Ragnarokk, but these others remember.”

  “Remember and were there,” Arthur says. “It was in the early days of human civilization.”

  “I fought at Ragnarokk,” Anson comments, “but my sympathies were torn, shapeshifter that I am. Still, in the end, I believed that humanity should not be slaves.”

  The Changer nods. “I, too, was torn, but like you I sided with those who would tolerate rising humanity as equals, not dominate them as vassals. In those days, Lovern was among us, too, though he called himself Mimir.”

  “Yes,” Arthur adds. “Already he was counselor to monarchs and recognized as a wizard.”

  Vera clears her throat as a means of getting attention. “One thing I’ve always wondered. Why do our people speak of that battle using the names given in Norse legends? Other cultures, even my natal Greek, tell tales of the battles of the gods.”

  “There was an athanor skald,” Arthur explains, “who told the tale among the Norse. It fit their dark and desperate view of the universe. He used our own names—altering them slightly to fit the language in which he composed. Since his version was closest to what had happened, we borrowed his nomenclature.”

  “Ah,” Vera says. “That explains it.”

  The Changer continues. “The king—though he would have called himself a god—that Mimir served in those days is remembered by the name of Odin. He was mostly just, but eager for knowledge and for power.”

  “He traded an eye,” Vera recalls aloud, “for wisdom.”

  “He traded an eye,” the Changer says, his voice becoming more gravelly than usual, “but not for wisdom. He traded it for Mimir’s service. From it Mimir crafted a magical tool that he promised would give them great power, power that would assure that Odin’s battle would be won.

  “Mimir kept his promise,” the Changer continues after a sip of fruit juice, “though ultimately the loss of that eye cost Odin his life. Using Odin’s eye and, I suspect, his own blood, Mimir grew himself a second head.”

  Eddie stirs. “I recall that his cowl was deformed, but I could not tell why. Nor was I bold enough to ask what was the reason. There were rumors thereafter…”

  “I heard,” Anson says, “that he later removed the head and used it as some wizards use a cr
ystal ball.”

  “That is so,” the Changer confirms.

  As the Changer has revealed these old secrets, secrets that do not cast a kind light on his wizard, Arthur has grown somber.

  “Changer, you know that Lovern still has that Head. It was the prize he regained from Duppy Jonah’s realm.”

  “Lovern had it,” the Changer sighs. “Lovern—Merlin—Mimir has kept the Head through many lives, many roles. Until we brought it forth, he visited it only astrally. However, when he grew afraid for his life he feared to make the astral journey. Unwilling to do without his valued tool, he brought it from the sea and stored it in his chambers here. The Head is here no more.”

  “This Head,” Anson guesses, “is the other you mentioned.”

  “Yes. I believe that my blood and my eye are to be used to enhance the Head. From its cryptic words, I believe they will make it a body.”

  Vera clears her throat. “Maybe Louhi means to make herself a match for Lovern’s tool. Their rivalry is millennia-old.”

  “I do not think she would,” the Changer says. “Even if she knows the means, she knows now what Lovern has willfully ignored. The Head is not a tool—it is a person in its own right, a talented, powerful person. I believe that it hates its master and has willingly misled him for who knows how many centuries.”

  “Lovern must have known what it was!” Arthur protests. “How could he not?”

  “If the Head did not give him sign,” the Changer says, “or if Lovern chose to ignore those signs, then such ignorance would be simple to cultivate. Many athanor have nursed the one who would betray them. We are no different than humanity in this.”

  Jonathan Wong clears his throat. “Do you have any idea how much power the Head might possess?”

  “I do not,” the Changer says. “Does any here know what Lovern most used it for?”

  Arthur frowns. “Predicting possible futures, designing spells and enchantments, and storing bits of lore.”

  “In that case,” Vera says somberly, “it could be as powerful as Lovern himself.”