Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  My psychic copy was playing coy. I didn’t get an answer. Bronze seemed to feel this was to be expected.

  All right. I once built him a telephone. I’d dial up Olympus and see if the Prince of Insufficient Illumination was available.

  We picked up my bodyguard detail in the hall, of course. I didn’t mind. I had Bronze with me—in disguise, but still Bronze. I could tolerate all sorts of nonsense with her around. We strolled through the halls to the main sanctuary.

  A service was going on. Interesting. I parked myself near the door, at the end of one of the wraparound stone ledges serving as benches. Bronze stood in the entryway gap between the stands, beside me. My bodyguards waited at the door.

  The sacrificial portion of the program was already over. The smell of burned blood was strong. Now the priest was going on about the noble virtues—Courage, honor, discipline, strength, mercy, generosity, and many more. His main point for the week focused mostly on strength, the various types of strength, why each was important, and how it fit with the overall ideals of the Lord of Shadow.

  It always interests me how the cultural view of shadows isn’t a negative one. There are absolutes of light and absolutes of dark, but shadow is one metaphor for life itself. Life doesn’t have absolutes, or so they claim, but is a process of eternal change—and, hopefully, improvement.

  He was a good speaker. I liked his sermon. Admittedly, he did start to sweat a lot shortly after I came in. I think it’s understandable. From his point of view, god dropped in to grade him on his preaching. I tried to keep a smile on my face and nod whenever his eyes ran across me. I don’t know if it helped or not. It was daytime and I don’t normally see spirits unless it’s night. I was pleased the congregation kept their attention on the speaker.

  As people filed out after the closing prayer, they sang. I guess when you don’t have a pipe organ, you need some sort of “Please leave the room” music. Many of them did double-takes at the horse, then at me. I kept shaking my head and gesturing them to move along. They did.

  Eventually, traffic cleared enough for us to approach the central stage. The priest was waiting, somewhat nervously.

  “My lord?”

  “Good job. I liked the part about there being several kinds of strength. Do you plan to include a note in later sermons about how it’s important to know when to use your strength?”

  “Yes, my lord, that has already been planned. Strength without perception must be guided; perception without knowledge must be taught; knowledge without understanding must grow wise. Conversely, wisdom without knowledge, knowledge without perception, perception without strength—each is useless.”

  “Perception without strength is useless?”

  “What good is it to see what must be done if we lack the strength to do it?”

  “I see. Not bad. Overall, I think I like it. Keep up the good work. Now, though, if you don’t mind, I’d like the room to myself, please.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” he replied, bowing and backing away. Stragglers began to hustle. In less than a minute, everyone was gone. My bodyguards closed the doors and waited outside.

  I stirred the ashes in the brazier, added some more fuel from the drawer under the altar, magically encouraged it to burn, and nicked the back of my hand to provide blood. The drops sizzled on the coals and billowed upward, expanding far beyond what they should. The thick cloud of smoke formed a face.

  “Hi!”

  “Hello again,” it said. “I thought you might drop by.”

  “Wonderful. Would you care to hazard a guess on why?”

  “Hmm.” The smoky face regarded us. A smoke hand partially appeared, as though coming into frame, stroking the chin. “I’m going to guess you need to… ask a question?”

  “Good, good. And can you guess the question?”

  “I’m sensing it’s either ‘What the hell?’ in the sense of ‘What happened?’ or a ‘How did this happen?’ Am I right?”

  I looked at Bronze. She looked back. She already knew my sense of humor was awful and loved me anyway.

  “Pretty close. I wasn’t going to ask ‘What the hell,’ exactly, but you’re only off by one word. I can go with it. Would you please tell me what the hell happened?”

  “Now, see, I knew you were going to ask that.”

  “And I’d appreciate an answer.”

  “Simple,” he replied, smugly. “Bronze is a living being.”

  “I knew that.”

  “No, I mean she’s a living entity, not an empowered construct.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “Yes, but she always has been.”

  “I’m pretty sure I already said I knew that.”

  “Yes, but did you ever consider the ramifications?”

  “Of being alive? I haven’t been meditating on the meaning of life, no.”

  “Okay. Look. I remember telling you about the Bronze and Firebrand analogues up here. Do you?”

  “I think so,” I admitted. “Sort of accessory deities? If I remember correctly, those are like—what did you compare them to? Odin’s ravens? Something like that. They exist because you do and they’re part of your… mythos? Part of your image?”

  “Pretty much,” he agreed. “They have a quasi-independent existence ever since we instituted the whole three-aspects thing for the three divisions of the Knights of Shadow.”

  “So, if you’re the God of Shadow, there’s a demigod of Firebrand, a demigod of Bronze, and… a demigod of knowledge?”

  “Not exactly, but close enough.”

  “Good enough for belt buckles, anyway. What’s with the scroll?”

  “It’s complicated since it doesn’t have an actual analogue up here, yet, but I’m working on it. To get back to our main point, though… When we were escorting Tort’s spirit out of the world—she’s still coming along nicely, I might add—you and I were very much engaged in the process of her departure.”

  “I remember it vividly.”

  “Me, too. She died and departed the mortal coil. When Bronze was disintegrated, she was effectively killed, too.”

  “With you so far.”

  “But Bronze isn’t some simple, mechanistic construct. She’s alive. What happens to living things when their bodies are disintegrated?”

  “You mean, if I don’t interfere.”

  “Yes.”

  “As far as I can tell, their spirits either wander the world as ghosts, get snatched up by a simulata, or go through some cosmic recycling system and come out as new people.”

  “That’s not a bad summation. Go ahead and think of it that way. It’s more complicated, but it’s good enough for your purposes.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Anytime, Doctor Sarcasm. Anyway, Bronze didn’t become a ghost or get recycled. You and I didn’t have anything to do with it, but her quasi-deific other self did.”

  “I think I begin to see,” I mused, slowly. “If Bronze was going to horsey heaven, then the cosmic version of her was there to escort her?”

  “Not an unreasonable way to put it, I suppose. It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “I’m dealing with things way above my pay grade. It’s always more complicated than that.” I sighed. “So, I’m guessing the plan was to let her stay there or figure out a way to reincarnate her. Last I checked, you didn’t have a good grasp of the whole reincarnation thing, so she was staying. What brought her back to a mortal plane?”

  “Well, that’s a bit more tricky,” he admitted. “Um. Well, see, she’s a little… I don’t want to say ‘stubborn’…”

  Bronze snorted. The smoke-face sighed.

  “How about ‘strong-willed?’ I could say ‘willful’ and ‘headstrong,’ but ‘strong-willed’ is probably best.”

  Bronze nodded.

  “Fine. The three of us—Firebrand included—try to keep an eye on you. Watching your adventures is like having our own reality show. We can’t generally do anything, since you’re always in place
s where we’re not worshipped and the magical environment is low to nonexistent.”

  “But you did interfere,” I pointed out.

  “Yes. No. Sort of.”

  “That’s what I love about you: Precision.”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “Only on alternate leap years. Go on.”

  “Look, she saw an opportunity—rather, they saw; her and her überganger—when you were in distress. There was an active conduit into that universe. That is, there was an active energy-state being in your near vicinity, making it easier to get through.”

  “One of you guys?”

  “No, not one of us. It’s hard to explain. Look at it this way: if there are multiple solid worlds, there could be multiple energy worlds, too. So, someone from one of those was already stressing the fabric of local spacetime to manifest an energy effect in a material realm.”

  “Got it. It was the angel?”

  “Yeah… I guess. But Bronze has been living in our energy-state plane for a while, running around with her other self, enjoying the place. When you were in immediate personal danger—crucified and about to fry in the sunset—she wanted to go help.” He sighed. “Rather, she went to help, regardless of what anyone or anything else had to say about it.”

  I looked at Bronze. She looked back. He was absolutely right.

  “Ordinarily,” he went on, “this sort of thing isn’t precisely forbidden, mostly because it’s impossible. Nobody ever wrote a rule for it since nobody ever did it. It also wasn’t the world of Karvalen, nobody else’s worshippers were on it, and she isn’t exactly a typical soul. I don’t have to be limited by the agreements of the other simulata up here when I’m dealing with worlds where they have no say. See what I mean?”

  “If they don’t have a stake in it, they can’t tell you what not to do.”

  “Exactly. Now, in Apocalyptica, none of them have any standing. Likewise, as far as I know, none of them have a foothold in—what do you call it? The place Bronze broke through.”

  “Flintridge. It’s the name of the town where we first landed, but it’s the code-word for the world.”

  “I sense another Karvalen mountain-city-kingdom bit of ambiguity.”

  “I hope not. Go on about people not ordering you around,” I insisted.

  “Since I don’t have an agreement with anyone lording it over Flintridge, my only restrictions are based on the laws of the universe and my available power. Now, with a… it’s not exactly a hole, but a weak spot in the material realm, it was possible to use our energies to push your Bronze through into the Flintridge place. Not that she gave us a choice—she started the process on her own. We leaned into it once we realized what was happening. It would take a while to squeeze her through, but with us three celestial types pushing, we felt she could make it.”

  “And if she didn’t make it?”

  “She’d be annihilated, torn asunder by the forces involved and blasted into scattered energy fragments across the infinite void, her energy-pattern dissolved into the background noise of the multiverse.”

  I glanced at Bronze, checking with her. Yep, she knew it. She also didn’t care. Given the choice of an infinite paradise or risking utter dissolution and oblivion just to save my life, she jumped into the conduit and came for me.

  “Never do that again,” I told her. She nodded, lying. I couldn’t stand the idea of her being destroyed the first time. I didn’t like her risking death again to come save me. I would rather she didn’t risk sacrificing herself for me, ever. She understood me perfectly and would still do whatever it took, risk whatever had to be risked, because she would always be there for me.

  I’m pretty sure she’s part mule. She can raise stubborn to sell. She could give a rock lessons. I have no idea how my celestial copy copes with her celestial copy.

  “Fine,” I agreed, acknowledging defeat. “But please be careful?”

  Bronze brayed a laugh at that. She’s at least as careful as I am. Maybe I should be more careful, too.

  “So,” I said, turning back to the face, “she jumped into the extradimensional conduit and you pushed her through.”

  “For all practical purposes, yes.”

  “Thank you for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, since you’ve come for guidance…”

  “Yes?”

  “I noticed something you need to know.”

  “I am all attention.”

  “During the transfer, I saw the energy-being you were talking to.”

  “Bright things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are. Very bright. You might say they’re creatures made of light.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say…” I trailed off. I had a terrible premonition. “Does this have something to do with the Lord of Light?”

  “Yep. Your turn. What am I thinking?”

  “How the hell does the Lord of Light have anything to do with angels?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “No, seriously. What’s the deal, here?”

  “No, that’s not it, either. You’re terrible at this game.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Sorry. I’m still a little punchy from hoisting a horse through the gaps in the universe.”

  “I’ll forgive you. Now get back to the whole Lord of Light thing. Back there on the road through the Darkwood, I didn’t actually get into a fight with big-G god, did I?”

  “Nope. But you did get into a fight with an angelic entity. Good job on surviving it.”

  “Can you explain to me how I survived a hostile encounter with an angel?”

  “No. I have some guesses, but I don’t know,” he admitted. I sat down on the altar and rubbed my temples. The headache wasn’t much of a headache, but it was right behind my eyes and getting bigger.

  “Fine. Guess.”

  “First off, I’m not sure what they are. They’re on par with us, the simulata, the gods of Karvalen. Hence, the creature claiming to be the Lord of Light masquerading as the original Lord of Light. From a power perspective, we’re very similar.

  “The thing is,” he continued, “I’m not sure where they come from. I have an idea, though.”

  “Oh? I’m interested.”

  “The theory going around up here—and don’t spread this around the mortal realms—is that the local gods evolved in another universe. When their universe started running down or cooling off or whatever, they went looking for new food. Some found humans and similar sapient entities could provide energy they could consume, kind of like breathing the oxygen produced from plants.

  “I have an alternate theory on the origins of the gods. I’m thinking they may have formed as an inevitable consequence of the interaction between human-ish thought and an intense magical field. Because mortals tend to believe in things in a superstitious fashion, they tend to lay a pattern out in their thought processes. Since magic interacts with sapient races, if you get enough people believing in the same thing, it may become real.”

  “So, in the chicken-or-egg question, the humans came first?”

  “For one theory.”

  “Or they’re evolved energy-beings from an another universe.”

  “We could be living in a universe still in the early stages, before the formation of most matter,” he pointed out. “It would be an energy realm, you know.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Either way, I can’t prove it. But my theory would account for my own existence. And it would make sense. One species of energy-state being evolved as a life form. Another species was spontaneously created. If we postulate the gods of Karvalen were created by magic and belief, then these angel-like things you encountered were the evolved life forms. It accounts for everything, I think, because the Lord of Light is definitely a different species from us. Kin, yes, but not the same.”

  “Good to know.”

  “One disturbing idea,” he went on, “is that they might actually be angels. A whole class of created
entities built by an even higher-order being.”

  “Valan said humans would refer to him as an angel. He implied he wasn’t,” I pointed out.

  “Hmm. Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Food for thought. It also implies he knows about real angels.”

  “Or, he only knows the myths humans have built up around his kind.”

  “Good point. I’ll have to consider that.”

  “Get back to your point.”

  “Valan and the Lord of Light appear to be similar species of energy beings. They seem more orderly and organized in their construction than us, and this provides them with some advantages and disadvantages.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, wherever they get their energy from, they can use it wherever they go. I, on the other hand, don’t get to crack out even routine miracles in worlds where I don’t have a religious base. Bronze’s reincarnation was an ultimate effort, taking most of my energies, and leaving me too pooped to hold a conversation even on my own holy ground.”

  “Aha! That explains why I had to use the deiphone?”

  “Exactly. It’s doing the work to maintain this call, not me. I’m exhausted.”

  “So what’s the downside to being a would-be-called-an-angel?”

  “I think they have to obey the rules in the universe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, look. Around here, I can physically manifest in Karvalen by creating an avatar. I can work through priests—or you, Mister Special—but I’m not allowed to do anything directly. I’m capable of it, but we all have an agreement. But I could manipulate the world directly if it weren’t for the divine accords.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “In other universes, there are other rules. You know our mutant humans in Apocalyptica?”

  “Yep. I met a tribe or three and you tell me I accidentally started your religion there.”

  “Exactly. The rules are different there. I’m allowed to act directly—there’s no one to tell me not to.

  “However,” he continued, “there’s not much I can do. Oh, sure, one limit is their understanding. It hamstrings their devotion. Language is very useful for explaining how to worship. The physical laws of the place—or the mystical laws? The theological laws?—are a bigger problem. For example, I always listen for someone thinking hard about starting a fire. If they’re thinking about me and how I can help them start a fire, I generally do; I direct energy into the vibrational rate of the material they’re trying to ignite. They then give thanks—a mental condition where they are grateful to me, praise me, all the stuff that sends energy my way.”