Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “Yeah, I knew it would, but I didn’t realize it would be so much.”

  You may have forgotten to allow for the planetary albedo. It’s only about thirty percent, but energy reflects from the planet back up through the panels, too.

  “Dammit! You’re right. I forgot all about it. Even so, they’re not supposed to dump magical energy on the planet until they reach… double dammit! There must be half a million square kilometers of the things already.”

  And more. On the plus side, they could do a marvelous job of cooling some of the more inhospitable regions of the planet without provoking major climate change. I think.

  “I’ll get with Diogenes and check, if you don’t mind. It’s a major expenditure to cast spells that high up—I haven’t worked out the coefficient of resistance because I don’t generally do it. It’ll be like moving furniture. I don’t want to rearrange everything and find I have to do it all again.”

  Good idea. I’m not all-knowing. I just know many things.

  “Maybe we can put them over the poles. They’re intercepting a fraction of everything outside the visual range. They might be good for the ozone layer, if it still needs the help. And it’ll be hard to over-cool the frozen wastelands.”

  I’d still ask Diogenes for an analysis.

  “I will. Maybe I can grow another layer of panels to absorb energy from the charged particle radiation funneled in by the magnetosphere.”

  Won’t that turn off the Northern Lights?

  “It’s not like anyone is using them.”

  Aesthetically, I disagree. Practically, I can’t fault it. But that’s over in Apocalyptica. This is Karvalen. What brings you back? I haven’t noticed any need for the Her Majesty’s Cruise Missile.

  “I’m visiting T’yl to find out why he’s complaining about being master of the soul transplant unit. And why he wants hybrids instead of First Elves.”

  Fair enough. Don’t forget the upcoming birthday.

  “I have a reminder with Diogenes.”

  Good man. Want an escort to the Vault of Immortality?

  “No, but I’m sure I’ll have one anyway. Anybody else need anything, while I’m here?”

  Need? No. Give them a chance and a dozen people will beg for your time, though.

  “Yeah. No.”

  I didn’t think you’d want to stay.

  “But I do want to ask about Tort. How’s she coming along?”

  Wonderfully. There’s only a tiny spark of her… well, call it the demiurge of her spirit—that bit making her a creative individual, rather than a robot. I’m nurturing it to make it grow. It’s a slow process, mostly because I’m exercising all care—I want to get it exactly right on the first try. I’m cautiously optimistic about the outcome.

  “That makes me feel better. And I agree. Take all the time you need.”

  Thanks. She’s important to me, too.

  “Any idea where I can find T’yl?”

  Let me look. Hmm. He’s in his office, interviewing an elderly magician. That’s all I can tell through his shielding spells.

  “Do we still have tunnels up to the Palace?”

  We’ve got tunnels everywhere.

  “Great. I’ll see you later.”

  Ciao.

  I left the shift-booth and immediately encountered the sentry. He was a big guy in black armor—all the Knights of Shadow are; that’s my fault—sitting quietly and reading. I noted the shield symbol on his tabard, as well as a small, bronze buckle on his baldric, engraved with a running horse. He went to one knee the moment I opened the door. The shift-booth door is a regular door, not a pivot-door, because of space constraints and convenience reasons.

  “Hello. And you are?” I asked.

  “Sir Vellyn, my lord.”

  “Nice to meet you. I assume there are going to be people following me around for my own protection?”

  “Always, my lord.”

  “Fine,” I sighed. It doesn’t do to upset them. “Call them.”

  He turned to the mirror on the wall and activated it. Moments later, a trio of knights arrived, one from each of the Blades, Shields, and Banners. The Shield had a similar belt to Vellyn, while the Banner wore one with an unrolled scroll engraved on the buckle and the Blade wore one with a sword. I wanted to ask about the belt buckles—they obviously had some significance—but it would seem odd for an avatar to be ignorant of such things.

  On the other hand, I could easily pause in thought for a moment.

  Hey, I addressed my altar ego.

  Yo?

  What’s with the belt buckles?

  A minor form of veneration, he told me. I’m a complex deity in that I have some satellite parts. Bronze and Firebrand, mostly.

  That explains the horse and sword, I agreed, but what’s with the scroll?

  Well, I’m not all-knowing, but I do know a lot. I needed something for a third symbol so each of the three divisions could have one, and some sculptor already had you holding a scroll…

  Could be worse, I reflected. Okay. Thanks.

  Anytime, mi amigo.

  With bodyguards in tow, we left the monastic little cell in front of the shift-booth and trudged down farther into the Temple. People stepped aside as we approached, shielding their eyes and bowing. I ignored this. I never know what the protocol is around here from year to year, and being bowed at makes me want a bath. Fortunately, we encountered fewer and fewer people as we descended. By the time we reached the tunnel to the palace, there was no one around. A good shove and the pivot-door let us in, another shove and the pivot-door was a wall again.

  It was a long walk. It’s a short ride on a fire-breathing horse golem, but it’s a long walk.

  Up in the palace area, I pushed the rotating slab of stone and it ground slowly open. I sealed it again when we were all through. I led the way and acknowledged more bowing on my way to visit T’yl.

  The lady in his outer office wanted to send me straight in. I told her not to bother and took a seat. It wouldn’t help to interrupt the business in hand and I wasn’t in a hurry. I killed time by letting the mountain know I was back for a while. Shortly thereafter, it acknowledged it was glad to see me.

  My pet rock likes me, but it’s not very quick.

  T’yl finally showed out his guest. The magician in question didn’t seem all that old, but they have any number of life-extending tricks. The real drawbacks to their methods generally fall into two categories. They cause someone or something else to take on the effects of their own age. They also sometimes fail catastrophically, causing sudden and fatal levels of extreme old age.

  T’yl’s face lit up in a smile when he saw me. We all went into his inner office and he urged us to sit. I noticed the guest chairs were of the carved sort—heavy, single pieces of wood capable of holding small elephants or me. I don’t know if they’re in fashion or if he anticipated my seating needs.

  “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you again,” he began, grinning and pouring something to drink. He had continued to subtly modify his features over the years. He appeared almost entirely human, although with a bit of the exotic around the eyes and cheekbones. Either he didn’t know how or didn’t choose to, but he still didn’t grow a beard. His skin was darker, approximately the shade I remembered from his human days, and his hair was the inky black I recalled.

  “I’m pleased to see you, too. I understand you have some sort of trouble?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say ‘trouble.’ Not as such.” He gestured with the bottle and I shook my head. The three on guard detail continued to stand and he didn’t offer them anything. He settled into his chair, behind the desk, and rolled the crystal goblet between his palms. “Right to business, then?”

  “I’m trying to stay out of politics and whatnot. If you need me, I’m here for you, but I don’t want to be involved. Hanging around socially is like asking people to pester me. I’d love to take in a play, go see a minstrel group, all that stuff, but how hard would it be for Lissette—th
e Bright Queen—to quietly go do such things? Besides, I want it clear that she is in charge. People will try to circumvent her through me.”

  “Hmm. I think I understand why you so seldom visit. Yes. Well, while this is political, it’s not a matter for the Queen.”

  “Great,” I sighed, regretting not taking the drink. “What’s the problem?”

  “There are a number of magicians who don’t care for your elvish immortality option.”

  “Oh? Their loss. Out of curiosity, why don’t they?”

  “Because elves are sexless drones, or so I am informed. I don’t seem to have any lack, but I am not in the body of a First Elf. Oh, to be immortal at any price has its devotees, of course, but your box of elves only produces First Elves. They are neither male nor female, and that is unacceptable to some.”

  “You mean they… seriously? Are you telling me magicians would rather die of old age than give up sex?”

  “Well, it is one of the chief reasons for trying to stay young,” T’yl stated, reasonably. “What’s the point of immortality if you can’t enjoy a youthful zest for life?”

  “There’s more to—” I began, and chopped it off. If they were going to be crotchety, unreasonable, irrational old coots, they were going to be exactly that. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worthwhile to give them an immortality option just to keep them from experimenting with vampire blood. It’s been working so far, but now they’re starting to get demanding. No good deed goes unpunished.

  I took a deep breath and let it go. It’s not all that difficult to provide different bodies.

  “Fine. I’ll arrange for it. You’ll have to put a note in the box to tell it what you want when I get it set up, though. There will be First Elves, then either male or female versions. I presume Bob is still happy with getting more First Elves of his own?”

  “He seems quite content, yes. So much so, in fact, I would like to turn over this responsibility to him, if I may.”

  “What, the whole soul-sucking bed-transfer thing?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because I have been doing it for eight years—eight years of arguing, assuring, and otherwise yammering at a bunch of self-important idiots who either want to understand the spells and do it themselves, or want personal service from the Lord of Night, or want their own body rendered immortal, or some other silly request.”

  “Customer service jobs are tough,” I agreed.

  “I enjoyed being the Magician of Karvalen,” he sighed. “It was a good position. Not too much work, time to read, good food, good women, good wine. Now I feel as though I am… a shepherd. A shepherd tending a flock of elderly, rebellious goats.”

  “That’s not a bad description.”

  “It is a bad place to be.”

  “I feel for you. Are you sure you want to hand it all over to Bob?”

  “You have a better choice?”

  “You could just hire someone to be your intermediary. Like the receptionist in your outer office.”

  “I tried that. No magician wants to deal with a subordinate. They—we—all want to deal directly with the person who uses the magical artifact. No secondhand opinions or promises, not when their own precious lives hang in the balance. Hence the many demands to deal directly with you.”

  “I see. We could try shutting it off and denying service to anyone. Go limp. Let them rant and rave until they calm down.”

  “And where would I hide?” T’yl asked. “I would have a dozen magicians clamoring for me. I may only supervise one transfer in a month, but the negotiations beforehand can take twice that!”

  “Negotiations? For what?”

  “They always assume there is a price. They insist there must be. They refuse to be indebted over this. So I have to negotiate a price—whatever they feel is appropriate to pay.”

  “Let me get this straight. You have to find out what they think is a fair price for immortality so they can pay it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s physical immortality and you can’t give it away?”

  “Yes.”

  I shook my head. I will never understand magicians. I may never understand Karvalans, for that matter. The people on this world think differently than I do. Maybe not worse, exactly, but definitely not in the same way. I think it’s a cultural thing, but I haven’t dragged a comparative sociologist over to analyze it.

  “Fine. Look, if you absolutely need to quit the job, find a worthy successor. If you honestly believe it’s Bob, okay. I trust your judgment. Just let me know who it is so I know who I’m dealing with.”

  “I will.”

  “Have we solved your problem?”

  “All but who to give the headache to,” he sighed. I grinned at him.

  “I imagine it tastes a little like trying to escape the crown,” I told him.

  “You may be right.”

  “By the way, where would I find Bob? Is he still in Vathula?”

  “I believe he has completed his relocation to Stadius, up north. I don’t care for the place, myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because of the people. A rough, unruly bunch. Mostly denizens of the mountains, but quite a few humans find their way to the City of Sport.”

  “I wouldn’t think it appeals to Bob, either.”

  “I doubt it does, but it pulls in money like a drain pulls in water.”

  “There’s one redeeming quality.”

  “I suppose. He keeps Stadius firmly in hand, though, and that means being there.”

  “I guess I’ll have to drop in on him. Wait,” I corrected. “How does he pick up his new elves?”

  “He sends someone for them. They transport them to Vathula, I believe, but I have not questioned him overmuch.”

  “Maybe I won’t have to go visit after all. Can you call him?”

  “Of course.” T’yl reached into his robe, presumably to hunt for a pocket mirror.

  “No, no. Not right now. But let him know I’d like him to send…” I trailed off, thinking, trying to remember their names. “Fili-something and Allie-something. The two he sent me the first time I asked for elves.”

  “I remember them. I thought they didn’t look much like elves, at first.”

  “Exactly. I’m thinking copies of those two will please your immortality customers.”

  “I should imagine so,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “Yes, I think so. They look the parts, and if they have the parts, all the rest can be negotiated. Assuming their parts all work?”

  “You raise a good point. I don’t really know. But it’s a take it or leave it offer. If customers want to modify the bodies later, that’s up to them.”

  “I feel certain many of our previous transfers will want to trade in.”

  “Fine, if you can do it without too much hassle. But also add that we don’t guarantee immortality on these models. Long life, yes, but maybe not eternal.”

  “I’ll make sure to mention it. I don’t think they’ll care.”

  “Wonderful. Send word when the elf-types get here, would you?”

  “Happy to. Are you leaving already?”

  “Yes. Lots of things to knock out while I’m here.” He stood up and so did I. He extended his hand instead of bowing or kneeling at me. I took it.

  “Good luck, Halar.”

  “Thank you, T’yl. For everything.”

  I trudged down to the Temple of Flame to say hello to Tianna and Tymara. Tianna seemed almost no different. Eight years and a child later, her appearance suggested she should be considering what degree program to pursue instead of fooling around with general studies. It’s one of the more subtle and uncanny gifts of being a fire-witch.

  Tymara reminds me of the younger versions of both Tort and Tianna. Even at six years old, her hair is an ongoing fire hazard, almost always flickering somewhere in the curly, coppery mop ruffling all around her head and shoulders. She smiles a lot, and often expresses herself in squeals of glee, grunts of
displeasure, and the like. Our conversations aren’t usually too detailed, but Tianna tells me it’s sometimes hard to get her to be quiet. She has the wide-eyed, attentive look Tort used to have. She watches everything and tends to stare at me. I’m not sure why. I’m a little afraid to ask.

  Tianna hugged me, hard, well aware I was durable. Tymara mimicked her mother, but only got one leg.

  I’m glad I’m a special case when it comes to being flash-fried by the Mother of Flame. Being hugged by two fire-witches is potentially deadly.

  “Grandfather!” Tianna exclaimed, and Tymara purred as she wrapped herself around my leg, holding a fire-resistant doll I gave her for her third birthday. I hugged Tianna, picked up and hugged Tymara, and let Tymara ride my hip.

  “Hello again, my darlings. How is your mother?”

  “Alight and bright. How are you? Come in, come in. We’ve only a little while before the sunset service.” I went into the Temple proper while my escorts waited outside. It’s a religious thing.

  “I know. I saw people settling in under the dome. I only want to stop for a moment. I do plan to be here for Someone’s birthday celebration, but just in case things go wrong, I wanted to trade hugs and kisses.”

  “I’m glad you could stop. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.” I sat down and Tymara squirmed into my lap. “I try not to eat too close to sunset.”

  “Of course. Tymara. Your great-grandfather is not for climbing.” Tianna called me provus, a generic term for ancestor. It seemed a reasonable thing. It gets troublesome to count “greats” after a while. Immortality problems aren’t always bad. Just usually.

  “I don’t mind,” I argued. Tymara took it as permission and climbed up onto my shoulders to hold on by my slightly-pointed ears. She had to get my hair out of the way, since I wear it long enough to hide the oddity. The doll—I forget what she named it—sat on top of my head like a mountaineer at the summit. Tianna looked at us both with a mother’s expression: I disapprove but you’re too adorable to scold. I smiled and tried to look innocent. Tymara laughed and drummed her heels on my chest.