by M. C. Planck
“They can’t hear you either,” Lalania said. She walked quickly to the door and then stopped, putting both hands across the threshold. The men on the other side stepped back and pointed their rifles. She waited until they lowered them before stepping all the way through.
Christopher could see they were not entirely comforted by her silent explanation. He joined her.
“My lord!” their sergeant exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. It’s the same room.” He looked over his shoulder as he spoke and stopped midsentence. Behind the door was a cloudy gray wall. “Oh. Okay, that looks pretty bad.” Curious, he stepped back into the room.
The room was as he had left it. Fae smiled contentedly at him.
The sergeant bravely followed. “Oh,” the man said, slightly disappointed. It took a bit of courage to step into that formless void, only to find a perfectly ordinary room on the other side.
Lalania came back in. “I said, should we send for the others now?”
“Did you bring what I asked for?” Christopher said instead.
She looked at him, preparing to be annoyed. With one hand, she pointed briefly to the other end of the room, where a leather sack sat on a chair. He had not noticed her sneak it in, which was kind of the point.
“Go and get the rest of the command staff, please,” he told her.
Lalania frowned sourly. She knew she was being cut out of the fun. Christopher hated doing it, but he wanted to ask questions, and he didn’t want Lalania to hear the answers. He was already worried about keeping them secret in his own head, which was protected by many more ranks than hers.
“As you command, my lord.” She didn’t leave right away, however.
“Thank you, Mistress Fae,” Christopher said. “You can go now.”
Fae wasn’t any happier than Lalania about being dismissed.
“Of course, my lord. You need but speak and I obey.” She bowed again, too deeply.
Christopher turned to Cannan. “I think I’ll be safe enough in here. If you could wait outside and explain it to people when they show up? It’s a bit disconcerting seeing that gray cloud instead of a doorway.”
If Cannan objected to being reduced to a doorman, he kept it to himself. With a minimal nod of his head, the big man walked through the door. The women followed him, unable to stop themselves from throwing Christopher one last glance of displeasure. When they were gone, he sat down and relaxed.
Moved entirely by senseless spite, he made obscene gestures at the guards still staring into the room. They did not react, of course, since they could not see anything. He swore for a bit in English. It felt good.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “To business.” The rest of his staff would be showing up soon. He put the leather sack onto the table and opened it, scrunching down its edges to reveal the leathery strips bunched inside. He took the purple spike out his pocket and added it to the pile. Then he summoned the creature’s ghost.
Spectral figures were supposed to be frightening. The pale shadow of this creature was like a painting of a nightmare, evoking the memory of fear and hatred without the meat of it. Christopher stared at the remnant of the architect of so many deaths. He should have felt elated at its current state or at least satisfied. Instead, it was inadequate, as if an alien horror were insufficient to explain all of the evil around him.
As always he hid from his fear in flippant small talk. “I didn’t know if this would work.”
The ghostly ball of tentacles spoke in his head, as it had the first time they had met, in the Gold Apostle’s castle. “As the spell compels me to honesty, I must confess I would not have known either. No one in the history of the world has ever desired to speak to one of us alive. Why would they speak to us dead?”
“Because you can’t lie here?” Christopher guessed.
“We never lie,” the ghost said. “The truth is always so much more hurtful.”
Christopher was pretty sure that was a lie itself, which, given that the spell was supposed to command honesty, was pretty worrying. However, he hadn’t asked a direct question, so perhaps it was just wriggling through a loophole.
“I know there are more of you.” Hjerne-spica never operated alone; Friea the Skald had told him that somewhere there would be a nest, thousands or tens of thousands of years old and guarded by enslaved monsters of every description.
“There are,” the ghost responded.
Christopher paused. That probably counted as two questions asked and answered. He got a lot more now than when he had used this spell to talk to Pater Stephram, but there was still a limit.
“They sold you out. They knew I had a plan, and they let you die unwarned.” He stopped because he did want an answer to this one.
“Unconfirmed,” the ghost said. “Perhaps they assumed I was capable of managing my own district.”
“That is possible. But you don’t believe it.”
The misty white tentacles wreathed in agitation.
“I do not.”
“So you died, to me, a lesser creature. A simple human of high rank.”
Despite their alien form and lack of substance, the tentacles communicated disdain. “Moderate rank.”
“Of moderate rank,” Christopher agreed, although the thought was discomforting. He could do a lot of scary things. It was disturbing to think there was worse waiting. “It must be humiliating. You must want revenge.”
“It is. I do.” The creature could not resist scoring easy points and racking up answered questions.
“You used me as a tool once. Do it again. Set me on a path to achieve your ends.”
“I do not have ends now. I am dead.” Those weren’t answers, however. He had broken through; the creature was talking to him.
“I found your death profitable. I would like to kill more of you. Tell me where your nest is, and I will attack it.”
The ghostly eyes blinked. “So it was madness after all. You are insane. And you must know, coming from one of my kind, that is saying something.”
“I know, right? I barely defeated you. No way can I fight a whole nest. They’ll eat me alive. And you’ll have your revenge.”
It stared at him slyly. “And if you have another clever plan? If you consume my nest through unimaginable trickery?”
“Then they deserve it. Just as they left you to my devices, so you can leave them. Failure is its own justification. If they are no more worthy than you, then why should you protect them?”
The tentacles jiggled obscenely. “To think my kind are called duplicitous. Your logic justifies any end so long as it accords with your desires. Perhaps we should reconsider our devotion. The White would seem no less constrained than the Black.”
Christopher smiled grimly. “My logic is my problem. You have enough logic of your own to understand I won’t do this lightly. You have to give me something more than just the location. You have to give me a fighting chance. A secret weakness, a back door, the disposition of the guards. Something.”
“Do you not trust to the power of your sky-fire?” It was baiting him now.
“Not for this. I need more of an edge.”
“You will march an entire army into the nest if I show you how to open the door?”
Christopher paused. He wasn’t bound by the spell, but he still didn’t think he was allowed to lie. “If necessary.” That was vague enough to leave plenty of wiggle room later.
“But at least you will take your retinue, yes?” It was asking for a promise.
“Okay,” Christopher said. “Sure.” He probably would have anyway. “Why is that so important?”
“Because I want you to watch them die. What I did to the Ranger’s companions was merely a field exercise. What the Masters can do in the heart of the nest will break your mind.”
Its tone turned to glee. “Now, my end of the bargain. Travel fifteen degrees east of true north for three hundred and seventeen miles and four hundred and twenty-one yards. You will find a tun
nel entrance hidden by magic and guarded by spell-craft. Carve this sigil upon your flesh, and you will be allowed passage without harm or alarm. From there, a few hundred yards underground will bring you to the lair. After that you will die but not before you realize how utterly you have outsmarted yourself.”
Christopher ignored the barb, desperately trying to memorize the shape the creature had traced in the air with tentacle. He repeated it several times until the ghost signaled its approval by lowering its tentacles.
“Give me more,” Christopher demanded.
“Strike before winter’s end. The sigil is changed every year. Take my trephine. The Masters will use it to summon my ghost so I can laugh at you. Of course I will not remember this meeting, but it will undoubtedly torment you all the same. Until we meet again, my lord, go in fear.” It folded its tentacles together in a complex pattern. As each one went behind another it vanished, until there was nothing left at all.
Christopher sank back into a chair, exhausted.
“What’s up?” Gregor said, coming into the room. “Dark take it but that gray door is unsettling.”
Christopher hastily closed the leather bag, hiding its contents. “Just a spell I was trying.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The rest of his command staff arrived. Gregor and Torme commanded armies and were also the only two other priests of the church of Marcius; Cardinal Faren ran the White Church, which had almost doubled over the last two years now that its kindness was no longer viewed as weakness; Lalania, his liaison to the College of Troubadours which was also the national spy service. And last, Karl, general of the armies and the only man in the room who had no rank at all, and yet he was more valuable to Christopher than all the nobles of the realm combined. Cannan waited outside, choosing a role as bodyguard rather than advisor.
Missing were his allies: Duke Istvar and Lord Ranger Einar, Friea the Skald, the Witch of the Moors, and the Wizard of Carrhill. A number of lesser lords had sworn fealty to him, but they knew they served as employees, not equals. Hence the constant defections to the Wild. A life of adventure was an option for men and women of high rank. Christopher had almost emulated them once, flying his horse above the trees with Lalania on the saddle behind him, lured to seek out some new place where treasure lay in heaps without the snares of the kingdom lain upon them. Duty had brought him to ground, but now he had relieved these lesser lords of their duty. Lalania was right; he would be lucky to have any left soon.
The woman put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands. “Speak, my lord, and tell us why you have called us here at great expense to the realm.”
“Why did we need all this rigmarole?” Gregor asked. “I thought we knew how to detect for scrying. You just look for that little ball thingy.” He referred to the tell-tale, which appeared like a hazy ball of light. It could be hidden by a skilled practitioner, which is why rooms built for conferences were plain and as empty of furniture as possible.
“We can indeed account for those who would spy on us now,” Lalania explained patiently. “But what of those who in the future would like to look in on this conversation? How shall we see a tell-tale that does not yet exist?”
“You can do that? Scry the past?” Gregor looked alarmed. “We’re not even safe once we stop talking?”
“I cannot do that. But it can be done.”
“But not here,” Christopher clarified.
“Correct. What we speak here is hidden even from the gods. If you wish a plot that will not be forewarned by the Cardinal’s divinations, lay your plans here. Although once you give an order outside this room, you may well set into motion events that can reveal the future.”
“So we can plan . . . but we can’t do anything about it,” Christopher mused. “I can tell you that there are undoubtedly more monsters like the one I killed out in the birch-wood, and that we must make a plan for defeating them; but we cannot train tactics, stockpile weapons, or move troops without giving it away.”
“Normally we would not involve mundane troops at all,” Gregor said. “Normally we would practice and stockpile here in this room and then move with the speed of flight when we struck.”
“We won’t do that,” Christopher said. “We can’t beat them on our own. I’m going to ask for help.”
“So you called us here to instruct us to do . . . nothing?” Torme asked.
“Are you complaining?” Faren asked. “I for one have plenty to do as it is. If you are unoccupied, I can find tasks for you.”
“I find the conversation profitable,” Karl said. “If the rank at this table is not proof against this threat, then rank will not save us. Thus, we need not fear the loss of rank we bleed into the Wild. The army grows into the space they leave behind. We used to turn away ten applicants for every new position. After the border affair, we turn away twenty. The realm will trust its future to divine magic and firearms.”
“So no more adventures for you,” Faren told Christopher. “At least until after I am dead. Something to look forward to, then.”
Christopher bit his lip, unable to respond. He’d just made a deal for another adventure.
Faren tilted his head back and swore loudly.
14
ELVES
The days slid by. Christopher tried to be patient, knowing that the entities he wanted to talk to did not operate on human time. Still it was hard to tell whether he’d made enough of a ripple to attract their attention. And the end of the year was approaching.
Walking through the castle yard, Cannan spoke to him in a low voice. “There is a hawk watching us. It has circled three times.”
Christopher sighed. What was this obsession with birds? He looked up at the sky. The hawk waggled its wings and flew down to land behind the stables.
“Another trap we’re going to walk into?” Cannan asked.
“Always,” Christopher grumbled.
Here in the castle grounds, Christopher could travel without a posse. Thus, he and Cannan managed to enter the stable yard alone, save for the dozen grooms working throughout the area.
A woman wrapped in a hooded plain brown cloak was waiting for them on a bale of hay. When they approached, she pulled back her hood, revealing a pretty face framed in white hair.
“Lady Kalani!” Christopher said, surprised.
“Saint Christopher,” she greeted him. “I hope the day finds you content.”
“I didn’t expect you.”
“Why would you?” she asked, the picture of innocence. “I happened to be in the area and thought I would call on you for old time’s sake.”
“Sure,” Christopher said. “Of course.” Apparently he was supposed to make light conversation in case anyone was listening. “Did you get permission to work with the ulvenmen again?”
“No,” she said, sadness flitting across her face. “That story did not end well.”
Cannan seemed to detect something in her choice of words. The man had spent a lot of time around druids, so he understood them. “But it did end?” he asked.
“Most definitively.” Her face froze before it grimaced, and she changed the subject. “I understand you gained another rank.”
The compliment applied to both of them, so Christopher wasn’t sure who should respond. Cannan remained silent, however, which left it to him.
“I did, thank you. It’s quite a story.”
“I would like to hear it,” she said seriously. “Although perhaps not here in a stable.”
“Have dinner with us tonight,” he asked. “We can talk after.”
“If it please you,” she answered. “I shall.”
Kalani was mildly disappointed to find that D’Kan was no longer in his service. Christopher was surprised she remembered the boy. When she found he had been reincarnated rather than revived, she frowned.
“I thought you would approve,” Christopher said. “Isn’t it the elven way?”
“It is the price of our curse,” s
he said. “We do not ask anyone to emulate it. We would take elven form again after death if it were possible for us.”
“Maybe you should go out there and set them straight,” Christopher suggested. “The druids seem to think they’re following your example.”
She looked at him dubiously. “You advised me against the ulvenman project, yet I assure you teaching wolves to say please is vastly simpler than explaining to a community that generations of their faith have hinged on a mistake.”
“On that we can agree,” Lalania muttered.
Mistress Fae did not usually attend his dinners, but this was a special occasion since they had a guest. Now she reminded him why he didn’t normally invite her.
“Our lord changes the faith of our realm. Generations of false churchmen fall into line; the people embrace the White with both arms.” The witch spoke it as a challenge, which Christopher thought was wildly unfair as she herself had never shown a speck of interest in theology.
“Christopher does it by shooting people, which is beyond my ability,” Kalani replied evenly.
“Oh look, dessert,” he said, waving to the waiters to hurry up and bring it. “It’s called ice cream. I invented it. Although it’s better in summer.” It would also be better with chocolate. He’d tried describing the flavor to Lalania to see whether she could replicate it with her magic, but it never came out quite right. Eventually he stopped the experiments when he realized he wouldn’t know whether she got it right. It had been too long.
“After dinner,” he said, when it looked like Fae would keep going despite the distraction, “I’d like you to prepare the conference room again. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course, my lord,” she said, staring daggers.
He and Kalani were alone in the vault chamber after Fae had completed her ritual. The elf stood, admiring the gargoyles. “They are skilled work,” she told him. “Only a few hundred years old.”
He leaned back in his chair, disappointed. “So they’re original.” The kingdom itself was only a little older than that. It was a depressing thought; it meant that Varelous the Arch-Mage, founder of the realm, had been the high point of the kingdom’s sophistication. In all that time, they had never equaled his magic.
