Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  “Potentially so,” Jonathan agrees, “though it may not know how to employ its vast knowledge. Magic is more than knowledge. It is the skill to perform the rotes that manipulate the power.”

  “But Louhi will know how to perform those rotes,” Eddie says. “Lovern has long admitted that she is nearly as powerful as he is and, in some ways, more skillful.”

  The Changer nods. “Lovern has had the Head as a crutch—or at least an assistant. It may have made him lazy. Louhi has had nothing of the kind.”

  Arthur rises and begins pacing. “So we are faced with Sven Trout—as great a mischief maker as has ever lived—Louhi Maki—a potent sorceress and one with no great love for this House—and this Head. Changer, did you get any indication of what they desire?”

  “No.”

  “Will you hazard a guess?”

  “Rather, let me offer a question in return.” The Changer’s tone makes quite clear that he is not merely playing games. “What might they want—what might they believe that they could gain—that would make the enmity of both myself and Lovern a fit price? What could they hope to achieve that would be worth the cost of being declared out of Harmony? The South American contingent did not really believe they would be so declared. Isidro Robelo was an idealist. These three are not.”

  Arthur shakes his head. “I know not. They are endangered already—if not by your actions, by Lovern’s. Even if they faced the lesser penalty of being declared out of Accord, they could not call upon our protection. Many of our more warlike people will welcome the challenge of hunting them down.”

  “I don’t know either,” Jonathan admits, “but I have suspicions.”

  “What?”

  “Let me brood a while,” Jonathan says. “This is not a time to jump to conclusions.”

  Arthur looks as if he, too, has suspicions, but that he would prefer not to dwell on them. The others wait in silence for the Changer to go on.

  “I have nothing more to add,” he admits. “Suspicions of intent do not interest me. My goals are to heal, then to neutralize this threat to me and my child. That is all.”

  “You will not consult a physician?” Eddie pleads.

  “Not at least for now,” the Changer says stubbornly. “Were I my enemy, I would have spies reporting on Aesculapius and the best of the others. The lesser ones cannot help in a matter that is medical and magical at once. As I said before, I do not wish to confirm that I am sorely hurt.”

  No one gainsays him, and he continues, “Shahrazad and I will return to the wilds. There, I can keep her safe, and in solitude I can concentrate on healing. Wild things often go to earth and rise from injuries that would kill a human.”

  “Then?” Arthur says.

  “Then I will contact you and trade information.”

  “You will not be in contact for the nonce?”

  “No. They drew me out once before by your summons. I will not permit that to happen again.”

  “Ah.” Arthur muses silently that the Changer’s egocentric view of events is annoying but predictable. “Then you have made your plans.”

  “I have.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “If your hospitality extends for another three days, I will leave on the fourth.”

  “It does, and it will continue to do so even if you change your mind.”

  “I will not.”

  “I have not forgotten what you did for Vera and Amphitrite.”

  “I did what I did for my reasons, Arthur.”

  “Still, I am grateful.”

  “If that gratitude will keep me sheltered and fed for three more days, then I, too, am grateful.”

  Arthur shakes his head. Perhaps if one has no set form, arrogance can be a form of its own. He wonders if it is one he would choose, wonders with unusual honesty, if it is not one he has already chosen.

  The Changer makes arguing with him over the course of his recuperation impossible by the simple expedient of staying a coyote. He is a singularly polite coyote, to be sure, refraining from peeing in inappropriate places or tearing up the furniture, but beyond thumping his tail in agreement when offered food and barking when he needs to be let out, he does not communicate.

  Resigning himself to the fact that the ancient cannot be swayed, Arthur ignores the shapeshifter with equal courtesy. He and Eddie begin searching for Louhi, Sven, and the Head, though they don’t feel a great deal of hope. Locating even a human who does not wish to be found is difficult. Finding a sorceress and a shapeshifting trickster who do not wish to be found is pretty much impossible.

  Still, they must try. Jonathan Wong departs on the second day to tend to his neglected law practice, promising to continue the search from the East Coast. Anson agrees to stay a bit longer, but, as he notes, he has been in Albuquerque over a month and eventually even his casual business dealings need his personal attention.

  On the fourth day, the Changer walks up to Arthur and barks sharply. To all appearances, he is fully recovered from his injury. His fur is glossy and his flanks have lost their slat-sided look. Only the thin black line where his eye should be testifies to what was done.

  When the King looks down, the Changer barks again, pointing with his sharp nose in the general direction of the garage.

  “I believe,” Eddie says, amused, “that he is reminding us that he is leaving today and requesting a ride.”

  The Changer barks again, wagging his brush just enough to acknowledge that Eddie’s interpretation is correct.

  “Well, we can’t have him and Shahrazad running through the city in broad daylight—or even after dark.” Arthur sighs. “I’ll drive them out myself.”

  The Changer takes his leave with a wag of his tail, angling his head to favor his remaining eye as he looks at each one. Shahrazad does not seem aware of any greater significance to the parting than that she is going for a ride in the van—something she has come to regard as a great treat.

  Vera and Anson come to the hacienda’s main foyer to see them off. The Changer seems to smile, but then coyotes often seem to smile—something that has led to their bad reputations.

  Once on the highway, Arthur soliloquizes, “Changer, I’ve been wondering what you think of me. You’ve never sworn yourself to me as a member of my court, yet you have been supportive. You have more power and—in a way—more influence than many others, but you have shown no desire to use it. And I’ve been thinking about the question you asked.

  “Loki—to be impolite and use a name with some bad associations—has chosen to use some dangerous tools in this most recent gambit. Yet, he has nullified you, if we accept as given that he prompted Louhi to damage you and is behind Duppy Jonah’s refusal to free Lovern.

  “Perhaps I give him too much credit. Perhaps Louhi is the dangerous one. I don’t know. I wish that I did. Maybe the Head is the one to fear. I wish I could ask Lovern about it. I almost dread asking him, too. I’d never realized that the thing might have a mind of its own—no pun intended. Working with it as closely as he did, could Lovern have failed to know?”

  If the king expects an answer, some burst of ancient wisdom, he is disappointed. However, perhaps he does not. Arthur, too, is ancient. Perhaps he is just thinking aloud.

  When they reach the same general vicinity in the Sandias as once before, the Changer barks. Arthur finds a wide shoulder and pulls off the road. Then he slides open the van’s back door. The two coyotes, one young enough still to be a puppy—though a growing puppy—one a grizzled male with a blind eye, jump out. The young one doesn’t pause, but vanishes into the brush. The elder gives Arthur an eloquent glance from his single yellow eye and follows his daughter into the darkness.

  To the east of those very mountains in which the Changer takes refuge with his daughter, the Head grows a body. Each day small but perceptible changes occur. Tendrils of flesh grow from the base of his neck and, as these grow longer, the internal network of bone, vein, artery, nerve, and other such things takes shape. Even as these form, more ski
n grows to cloak shoulders, chest, abdomen, and such.

  His skin loses the unwholesome translucence of a thing that has never seen the sun. When, after over a week, his heart begins to form, he takes on something like healthy coloring. His skin is not so prone to chapping, which is a great comfort.

  Long accustomed to isolation and immobility, the Head observes these changes, remaining stoic even when new-grown bone aches or when a partially formed organ belches into function. It has no one but Louhi and sometimes Sven to talk with, but in this place, at least it can watch cable television, a pleasure that it had not experienced in his dark prison beneath the ocean.

  Still, Louhi might be uncomfortable if she knew how often a gaze that she believes is occupied with watching a movie or news program is actually devoted to watching her. Proximity to the woman has only increased the Head’s lust. At first the feeling had been intellectual, but as his body grows, it takes on a distinctly physical component.

  Hormones needed for growth and the triggering of dormant programming contained in the DNA of his cells surge through his nascent circulatory system. As he develops glands, organs, bones, and tissue, he becomes more appreciative of the way Louhi wears her own flesh.

  Desire enflames him. For the first time in his cold existence, it affects his ability to plan, to calculate. He wonders if Louhi will desire him. He believes his new body will bear a strong resemblance to Lovern, who had been her lover and teacher. Does she hate Lovern enough to despise his likeness?

  The thought panics him for several days. Then he calms. He will never be the shapeshifter the Changer is—most of the potential contained in the blood Louhi injects into the artery at the base of his throat is used to stimulate his cells to shape the new body. Still, some small virtue may remain. If none does, he will learn shapeshifting magics like those Lovern works. It will take time, but what matters time to an athanor?

  He grins a broad, cruel grin that Louhi takes to be a response to the television program. She might fear if she could see his fantasies, if she knew what channels he watches when she is not in the house. She should fear, for his desire holds nothing of mature love, but only the wild possessiveness of a small child. This child will have the body of a grown man, and power to threaten the greatest wizard among them.

  But Louhi doesn’t know to fear. She goes on mixing her potions, singing her spell songs.

  And the Head grows a body.

  Two days after the Changer and Shahrazad have departed into the wilds, Vera taps on the door to Arthur’s office.

  “Come.” He rises when she enters. “Vera. Any news?”

  “None.” She pauses, her grey eyes tranquil. “Nor do I believe there will be. Arthur, Sven has much skill in hiding. Louhi is a recluse by temperament. Ours is a futile quest.”

  “Like the one for the Holy Grail, eh?”

  Vera shakes her head. “Don’t tease, Arthur. I have an invitation to visit Amphitrite.”

  “And?”

  “And I have a mind to take it. Duppy Jonah has commanded Lovern to create a spell to enable me to live beneath the waves.”

  Arthur looks hurt. “That should be easy enough for him. Such magics have been worked before.”

  “Arthur,” Vera crosses to him, astonishes him by enfolding one of his hands in her own. “I am not abandoning you—not at this time of all times. But I am too old to hope idly.”

  “I am older,” Arthur reminds her ruefully. “Are you saying I am a fool?”

  “No. A warrior who doesn’t know when he is beaten, perhaps, but never a fool.” She sits, and, after a moment, Arthur follows suit. “If I go beneath the sea, I may be able to convince Duppy Jonah to release Lovern.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know that we will never convince the Sea King over the phone. He can hang up too easily. The Changer is not here to assist us…”

  “I wish he was.”

  “If wishes were horses, my liege… Let me go to the Sea King’s home as Amphitrite’s friend. I will listen, learn, plot, and plan. She may even help me if she can do so without taking a public stance against her beloved’s policy.”

  Arthur’s face brightens. “Yes, that’s true. She can’t disagree with something he is doing to avenge her—at least not publicly. But if you confided in her…”

  Vera nods. “I shall. I shall tell her about the stolen Head, about its implications. She will be furious about the injury done to the Changer. Not only is he her husband’s brother, but he did us a kindness out there in the rain forest.”

  “Yes!” Arthur says, now as eager for Vera to depart as he had been reluctant moments before. “Go and see what good you can work, lady. When can you leave?”

  “I have a reservation on a flight this evening,” she says, catching a glimpse of irritation in the King’s face that she had not waited for his permission to make plans. “I can be with Amphitrite tomorrow.”

  Arthur nobly banishes his pique, acknowledging that it is unjust. “I’ll drive you to the airport. Do call regularly!”

  “Daily,” she promises. “If not more frequently.”

  “Very well, then.” Arthur shakes his head. “The hacienda is going to be quiet. Everyone except Eddie is leaving.”

  Vera grins. “And just a few weeks ago you were griping about how the Review was interrupting your privacy.”

  Arthur laughs. “Go pack. And godspeed, Vera.”

  “Thanks.”

  Unbelievably, after the pressures of the previous month or so, the next weeks pass fairly peacefully. July melts into early August, August into later August. Yet Arthur feels little peace. Nothing has been heard from the Changer. No one has located Sven Trout or Louhi Maki.

  Vera has not succeeded in convincing Duppy Jonah to release Lovern. She reports that she is hopeful. Arthur, hearing a certain relaxation in her voice, noting that her phone reports are becoming less frequent and less detailed, wonders if she is enjoying her vacation too much.

  He worries, spends excess energy working out with Eddie (who is taking physical therapy quite seriously) until his torso regains some of its former firmness. They are discussing the possibility of taking up fencing again when the telephone in Arthur’s office rings.

  “Arthur,” says a deep voice, “this is Bronson Trapper.”

  “Bronson! Good to hear from you. Everything going well with the new equipment you ordered last year?”

  “Well enough. No problems we can’t deal with here.” Bronson pauses. Arthur has the impression the sasquatch is searching for words. “Arthur…”

  There is another pause.

  “Yes?” Arthur prompts gently.

  “Are you planning on being in Albuquerque in September?”

  “I have no plans to be elsewhere. Do you need me to visit?”

  Bronson clears his throat, a sound rather like a bear coughing. “Actually, we’re planning on coming to visit you.”

  “Me? Here?” Arthur’s eyebrows rise. “In Albuquerque?”

  Reaching down, he switches his phone to intercom so that Eddie can listen in on the call.

  “That’s right. I thought you knew we were coming, then something Rebecca said made me realize that you still didn’t. I had made her promise that someone would tell you to expect us.”

  Arthur has the feeling that Bronson assumes that his speech has clarified matters instead of muddling them further, “Bronson, should I have the impression that when you say ‘we’ you are speaking of a group larger than yourself and Rebecca?”

  “Why, that’s right.”

  “Uh, how many are in this group?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Bronson admits. He sounds embarrassed. “The Moderator is handling the arrangements. Rebecca talks with a small group via a private chatroom—not everyone is on the Internet, you know…”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But from what she has gathered, I think there will be several dozen.”

  “Several dozen sasquatches?” Arthur m
anages not to sound horrified by dint of great effort.

  “Well, no…”

  Arthur relaxes slightly until Bronson continues:

  “There are going to be some fauns and satyrs as well. My cousin Snowbird is bringing his family from Alaska. I think some kappa are coming in, along with a group of tengu. The tengu may be there already. I’m not quite clear on that point.”

  “Oh.”

  “And there may be a pooka or two,” Bronson hastens to add. “I’m not certain about the details. I do know that the trolls couldn’t be convinced. They were worried about the intensity of the sunlight out there.”

  “Oh.” Arthur swallows hard. “Is that all?”

  “I’m really not certain. Apparently the Moderator has had the most luck recruiting from first world countries where there is a developed computer network.”

  “I can understand that. Even I have trouble reaching those athanor who reside elsewhere without magic.” Arthur is pleased with his matter-of-fact tone. He decides to essay a more awkward issue. “May I ask why you are coming?”

  Bronson says, “Well, Rebecca really wanted to go. When I realized that she’d be brokenhearted if I forbad her—never a good idea in any case if you want a healthy marriage—I decided to accompany her.”

  “No, no… I mean, that’s very interesting and very responsible of you, Bronson. What I was wondering is why is this convocation coming to call on me?”

  “Oh,” Bronson can be heard swallowing hard. “Well, most of them aren’t very happy with how you’ve been administering the theriomorphs, most particularly those of us who aren’t of animal nature. Isolation works fine for a rabbit or bird…”

  Arthur recalls the Changer, raven-form croaking “Nevermore.”

  “Yes.”

  “But many of the others feel as Rebecca does, that we must make ourselves known to the world at large.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Arthur moans softly. “That again!”

  “That again,” Bronson says apologetically. “I’m happy with the current situation, but the younger ones are more ambitious.”

  “So, when can I expect you?”