Mobius

by Garon Whited

  In the dungeon—excuse me, the basement—the characteristic opulence of the local culture continued. The floor was tiled with abstract mosaics and the walls were set with small squares of something dark blue and highly polished. The room into which I was shown was a receiving chamber of some sort, complete with table, lounge, and various types of chairs. I selected the sturdiest-looking of the chairs and perched on the edge of the seat. Judging by the chairs, they didn’t receive many armed individuals here.

  “Wine?”

  “No, but thank you. I do not drink… wine.”

  “Certainly, sir. The master of the house will be with you in a moment.”

  I noticed the phrasing. Specifically, the ipasnik of the ekka—the owner of the building—not the manzhani of a teyzvard.

  I took off my helmet and held it in the crook of one arm. This made it easier to hear, and I stretched my ears a bit, just in case I needed an extra second or two of warning. I was not a comfortable undead monster.

  The entity who entered the room did not allay my concerns. It was a flesh creature, human in form, but whatever inhabited it was not of the same order. If Bronze jumped into a human body, she might look like such a thing. The spirit inside had an unearthly radiance, albeit one of similar color and shape to that of a human spirit. In addition to the usual shifting colors, it also held bright motes, flickering in and out of existence, as well as crackling lines shivering through and around it like rainbow lightning.

  It took me a moment to shift my vision to the more physical sort and look at the envelope. At first glance, it appeared to be a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, but he was clearly not in the best of health. His hair was badly thinned, reminding me of radiation victims I have known. His skin was loose and sagging. He wore heavy robes and gloves, but I smelled the blood from open sores. It reminded me of a time when the Demon King possessed a mortal body. I did not like the reminder. As I considered this, I decided that was why he seemed familiar.

  “I am told you wish to speak to Rahýfel,” said the figure, moving to seat himself. Or itself. I’m not sure which it was, at that point. “You profess knowledge of his condition, or that of his successor. Perhaps you would explain yourself.”

  “No problem. Rahýfel is engaged in the wizardly practice of a chain of existence, moving from body to body over the course of his life, adding to his spiritual power with every transfer. Recently, he’s come into possession of my dynamos—the spinning things. I’m not saying he took them or even that he commissioned their theft, and it’s a subject I’m willing to overlook.

  “Before I go on,” I continued, “do you think we can get past the whole incidence of the theft? Or is it going to color our relationship and any future negotiations?”

  “You say you are willing to overlook it, regardless of the case?”

  “I admit I was extraordinarily upset when I discovered they were missing, but I’m over it. If you feel the need to make some small concession out of generosity, since someone obviously didn’t tell you they were originally stolen goods, I would graciously accept.”

  “We understand each other,” he agreed. “Please continue.”

  “Rahýfel, at present, is a powerful being in human terms. No doubt he is capable of spectacular feats of magic. However, he is also reaching a critical point. His body—each body he occupies—is breaking down rapidly when it tries to contain the force of the spirit he has become. Before much longer, he will find it impossible to occupy a body, much as a grown man finds it impossible to wear a child’s clothes without ripping them to shreds in the attempt.”

  “I see.” He stared at me over his brown-gloved hands. “Given your appearance and bearing, I presume you are not some simple warrior.”

  “Simple, maybe. Warrior? Yes.”

  “Among other things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Things one might not regard as fully human?”

  “One might,” I admitted, somewhat surprised. I thought my anti-detection spells were better than that. Then again, he was bordering on divine ascension. He might be looking at me in ways I couldn’t yet shield. Or he had some sort of intelligence-gathering network. Possibly both.

  “Perhaps even of demonic origin?” he pressed.

  I met his eyes and felt a sharp shock as his consciousness tried to impinge on mine. We wrestled for several seconds and I was glad Jon had trained me somewhat in psychic judo. I was also glad of my mental bunker spells. Neither of us came away the victor, but a stalemate was sufficient for me.

  “Perhaps not,” I countered, when we could speak again. “You are familiar with the gods of the Temple?”

  He snorted, triggering a coughing spasm. He covered his mouth with a cloth until it passed, paused for a moment to recover, and put the cloth away.

  “The gods of the Temple are idols,” he stated, flatly. “They have no more reality than those of the dirt-worshipping kustoni beyond the Kasnakani Range, or the gods of lost Allaren.”

  “Partly correct,” I agreed, filing away the term Allaren for later investigation. “They are weak and ill-formed, not yet strong enough to make themselves manifest to mortal men. But a spirit born of men and drawing on the powers that supply the gods with their force might ascend to a higher plane and become one.”

  The figure—let’s be honest: Rahýfel. Who else could it be? Rahýfel shifted in his seat, sitting up and looking at me keenly.

  “Speak plainly.”

  “I thought I did. You’ve added to your original power by merging with multiple wizard spirits. You’re revered as a god in the Temples. The combination of power from individuals and from the active worship of thousands is working a change in you. Combined with the spinning dynamos, you are bordering on rupturing your flesh and ascending to the plane of the gods whether you want to or not.” I shrugged. “It’s a mixed bag, I grant you. On the one hand, it’s effectively immortality without the pesky troubles of the flesh. On the other hand, the ascension is a risk. It can destroy your spirit, or so I’m told.”

  “How do you know this? Who says so?”

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

  “I say so.”

  I knew there would come a day when the Voice would be useful. Rahýfel jerked upright in his seat, eyes popping wide, mouth falling open, and his hands snapping down to grip the arms of his chair.

  “Excuse me,” I added, more normally.

  “How do you speak of these things with such authority?” he demanded.

  “Do I really need to tell you?” I replied, wearily. “You’re about to undergo a drastic change, just like I did. I recognize the symptoms.”

  Rahýfel’s eyes narrowed as he stared at me. I felt his attention as a physical thing. He wasn’t using magic to look at me, but exerting himself to look in new ways, ways more suited to an entity such as my altar ego. I didn’t like the fact he could do it. Not because it meant he was getting a handle on how to manipulate such forces—or not only because—but also because I didn’t like being looked at so keenly. It made me feel naked and exposed and vulnerable.

  Then something—someOne—metaphorically tapped me on the shoulder and gently nudged me aside. I let him, recognizing him, and he looked out through my eyes, back at Rahýfel. The God of Shadow and Fire met the gaze of the God of Wizards and each took the measure of the other. In that moment, we—they?—looked into one another and knew what they faced.

  Rahýfel blinked first. Score! I decided not to mention the departure of my altar ego the instant Rahýfel looked away. The effort of even so minor a demonstration exhausted him. Nevertheless, both Rahýfel and I came away from the encounter with more knowledge of one another. I recognized in him something of myself—a spirit bound to the realm of matter and flesh, but only barely. He saw in me a glimpse of what I loosely refer to as godhood, even if it wasn’t me, precisely.

  I didn’t enjoy the experience. My altar ego and I have done things like it before, in his temple in Karvalen. More locally, this was
only an expansion on our spying trip into the Temple. A closer connection, if you will, so he could channel energies through me. I still didn’t like it, not for an instant, and not by a long shot. I hope I kept my face composed while Rahýfel recovered his own composure.

  “I see,” Rahýfel said, quietly. “Perhaps you do have an understanding in the matters of which you speak. Why do you come to me?”

  “To find out what you want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you aware of what’s happening to you? Are you doing this deliberately? Or is this news to you? If you want to make the change, you have to understand it’s dangerous, even with help.

  “Help, you say?” he asked. “Your help?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Surely, even one such as you will want something in exchange.”

  “Yes and no. Before we get to what I want, it might be better to more fully explore what you want.”

  “Explain,” he invited. As an afterthought, he added, “Please.” I got the impression he wasn’t in the habit of asking, much less speaking to anyone as an equal.

  “The method of preserving your life,” I began, “known hereabouts as a ‘chain’ of existence, is, in your case, inevitably leading you to a choice about whether or not you want to radically change your state of being. Forging links in your chain is not true immortality as it has some indefinite limit on how many bodies you can occupy.”

  “Of this, I am aware,” he replied, somewhat acidly.

  “Under normal circumstances, with some minor adjustments, I think it can be used indefinitely. Your problem is you’re being worshiped as a god. My dynamos are adding to it.”

  “Then what is to be done?”

  “The way I see it, there are three major options. What I want depends on what you want.”

  “Tell me of these options.”

  “You can continue as you are, undergoing metamorphosis into the higher state I mentioned. If this is your choice, I can help you. The transformation is not without peril, but it is more dangerous to go alone. If you succeed, you will be, both in name and in fact, the God of Wizards.

  “Your next option is to alter your process when you take new links in the chain. Instead of occupying bodies with souls still inside, you will have to purge the current occupant before taking up residence, without absorbing and subsuming them. You will also need to expend some of the force you have presently gathered, so the bodies do not deteriorate unnaturally rapidly.

  “The third option I see is to occupy the body of some race which is, by its nature, immortal. In such a vessel you might continue as you are, or only slightly diminished, for eternity.” I clasped my hands and leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. “Do any of these options appeal to you?”

  He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair for several moments. He would not look at me, but cast his gaze around the room.

  “Why have you come to me?” he asked, finally. “Now, when I can feel the changes in my self? Why do you come now? Is my metamorphosis, my apotheosis, so imminent?”

  “Not at all. I don’t know how much longer you can go on in mortal bodies. Without the dynamos, you can probably get away with at least a few more transfers. With suitable healing magic to help offset the strain of bearing your spiritual burden, you might last quite a while. But the theft of my dynamos attracted my attention, and I have finally located them. Since you possess them, you came to my attention, as well. I have, as I said, no quarrel with you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You have a problem with which I am well familiar, and I see no reason to withhold what help I can offer. In fact, offering it may earn me some goodwill, should you succeed in making the transition from mortal to immortal, whatever the means.”

  “Which explains why you have come to me,” he agreed, “but, not fully, what you expect in return.”

  “Do you care about the Temple?”

  “No.”

  “Short, direct, to the point. I like that. I’ve been trying to avoid entanglements with the Temple, but they insist on being pests.”

  “This seems strange to me.”

  “Oh?”

  “You are already a god, are you not?”

  “Yeeeeees…” I admitted, reluctantly. “The trouble is, they don’t include me. They have eleven gods and deny my existence. The activities of the Temple have some influence and effect on the celestial realms, although not nearly to the degree the priests believe.”

  “I have no doubt,” he agreed.

  “My point is, they’ve been a pain to me for some time. Now, they’ve stolen my vidat. I’m sure they’ve hired wizards for the purpose, based on how she was removed, but that’s of no real concern. I want her back and I’m about to do awful things to the Temple in Sarashda. Since you’re the only god of the Temple with the ability to take note and express an opinion, I thought it best to discuss the matter with you before getting into a fight with the priests. You might have taken offense. Or, going the other way, you might even be willing to inform the priests of a twelfth god, and that they should stop pissing him off.”

  “You… address me as though I were…”

  “An actual god, aware of your worshippers and priesthood. Yes. My apologies. Do you see why I wanted to come to an understanding about your own desires? How I go about this will depend largely on your own decision.”

  “Do you press me to an immediate decision?”

  “No, but how I handle this is an immediate decision. It need not concern you if you don’t want it to.”

  “I can ignore it?”

  “You haven’t ascended,” I reminded him. “What I plan to do shouldn’t affect you in any material way. However, allow me to caution you. You are fast approaching the point where an ascension decision is no longer subject to your control. If you don’t take immediate action toward the more flesh-oriented options, your inaction will, by default, be choosing to shed your human existence.”

  Rahýfel rose to his feet and slowly paced around the room, shuffling a bit, gloved hands clasped behind himself. I allowed him to think. A man faced with major life choices should have the right to give them due consideration.

  “What,” he asked, still shuffling, “do your intended actions mean for me?”

  “Again, it depends on what you want. If you want to be the God of Wizards, we can arrange—you and I—to deliver the impression you’re an annoyed god. Annoyed the Temple is relying on wizards and warriors to try and force their views on people without even consulting the gods. Annoyed they’re actively offending another god. Annoyed, and therefore instructing them to… well, whatever commandments and doctrine you want to establish, really.

  “Of course,” I added, “we won’t tell them you’re the only one currently strong enough to answer prayers. But it will mean an upswing in the prayer power produced and a concomitant increase in your own rate of exaltation.

  “If you do not wish to ascend, I’ll handle the particulars myself. The Temple will be chastised more anonymously. The progression of your transfiguration will be slowed—you might also want to turn off the dynamos, by the way—and we can work on either of the methods to keep you enfleshed.”

  “For the moment, do you have anything to alleviate the pain I am in? I already have bent all my arts to it, and still this body fails!”

  I reflexively shifted my vision to look in yet another spectrum. Rather than physical or spiritual, I looked at his magical signature. Yes, he was wrapped in half a dozen healing magics of various sorts. The construction of the spells might be unfamiliar, but their effects were along the same lines as the ones I knew. They focused the body’s energies on regeneration, on cell replication, rather than on some of the less-useful responses to injury. One of them was quite interesting, as the spell expended magical energy to produce vital force, causing tissue regeneration without drawing on the body’s resources. I made a note for later.

  “If you don’t mind, may I take a closer look at your healing spel
ls?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I walked around him, evaluating his condition. The trouble wasn’t with the body. His body was a healthy, robust specimen. The trouble was the metabolic rate and the spiritual rejection. The entity inside it wasn’t a vital force, as such, so the body continued to work normally. On the other hand, if you put a neutron radiation source inside a car, the car works normally—for a while. After a while, it starts to break down. Too many bits of it start to disintegrate.

  “I can fix the individual lesions and sores,” I suggested, “but the underlying problem is your spirit. It’s too powerful for mortal flesh. There are ways to drain off a portion of it, bring it down to mortal levels again, but if we do that, you’ll have a long way to go to be ready for ascension. I hate to tell you this, but you really do need to make a choice soon.”

  Rahýfel sighed and slumped in his chair. I nudged mine closer and perched on the edge again.

  “I have felt the grip of mortality slipping from me the last two times I chose a successor,” he admitted, sighing. “Each time, the body I wear endures for fewer years. I no longer choose from those of greater years and depth of knowledge, but from the youngest and hardiest. Even so, this one may not last the rest of this year.”

  “It’s the dynamos,” I suggested. “They’re adding directly to your spirit.”

  “The feel of them is as the sun on a hot day,” he said, looking distant. “It is a warmth that moves through me entirely, exciting within me a power like some tiny seed, trembling to burst forth from it shell.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Yet, I do not feel I am ready to surrender this world of blood and bone.”

  “I didn’t say it was an easy choice.”

  “No. It is not.”

  “Look, I’m not rushing you. Take all the time you need—even if it means you abruptly ascend without warning. I—”

  “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Wait. You said there were ways to drain off a portion of this power.”

  “Yes, of course. The energies belong on the higher plane, inaccessible to mortals. It would not be difficult for a being of that plane to draw them back where they belong. Kind of like water wanting to run downhill, or smoke wanting to rise.”