by Garon Whited
“That’s odd,” I said, thoughtfully. “I could have sworn you were doing better than them.”
“Majesty?” he asked. He sounded confused.
“They wanted to be knights, but they quit. That strikes me as stupid. A real knight may change tactics if what he’s doing isn’t working, but he doesn’t just give up. And you’re doing better than most of the others who stuck with it, too; you’re weaker, slower, and clumsier than they are, but you kept on going no matter how badly you were doing. You had to try harder, and you did.”
“Oh,” he said, in a very small voice.
“Well,” I continued, airily, “if you want to apologize for quitting, you may. It’s your choice, of course. Bear in mind, though, that there are a lot of big, strong, fast men. Not all of them are knights—and most of them don’t have what it takes to be any sort of knight, much less one of my knights. I’m looking for something more than just big, strong, and fast. Any idea what that might be?”
“Um… no, Majesty.”
“Think about it. In the meantime, quit if you please; anyone who will quit should quit.”
He actually looked at me, right in the eyes, and that takes guts when I haven’t put my disguise spells on yet.
“Do you have a use for me as a knight, Majesty?”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Beltar, Majesty.”
“Beltar, I can make you strong and fast. I can train you with every weapon. I might even be able to help with that clumsiness problem. What I can’t do is give you courage, determination, and a noble heart. You prove to me you have those and I promise to take care of everything else. So, you tell me: do I have a use for you as a knight?”
“I think so.”
I shook my head sadly and sighed.
“If you only think so, then I don’t. Make up you mind! Do I have use for you as a knight?”
“Yes, my King.”
“I hope so. Now beat it.” I turned away from him and pretended to go about my business. He took the dismissal and departed.
I trudged upstairs to Tort’s laboratory, knocked politely, entered when invited. She was sitting in a chair next to a worktable, quill scratching on parchment. Next to her, a tallish gentleman stood over her worktable, half-leaning on it, watching what she was writing. He was in simple trousers and shirt, but they were high-quality, and he wore a jeweled ring on either hand; both rings shimmered in my mage-sight, but I didn’t take the time to analyze the spells. Tort put down the quill and turned to smile at me.
“Welcome, my angel. You have been busy,” she observed. I nodded. The man straightened up and faced me.
“I agree,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend?”
“My angel and king, may I present to you Thomen, Master of the Wizard’s Guild of Mochara?” He looked about forty-ish, with dark hair, brown eyes, and the first hint of frost at his temples. He was clean-shaven. His face looked as though it was accustomed to a lot of smiling and a lot of frowning; it had what artists call “character”.
“Pleased to meet you.” I offered my hand and he went to one knee before taking it.
“Thomen, this is the King of Karvalen,” Tort finished. Thomen’s lips quirked in a smile.
“I know who he is, my lady. I just thought he would be taller,” he said. I noticed an interesting inflection on the phrase “my lady.” I suspected that he might be more than just Tort’s friend.
“I wear special shoes. Stand.” As he did so, I asked, “I wasn’t aware there was a guild of wizards?”
“Only in Mochara, Your Majesty. With so many wizards and would-be wizards, it is necessary to… monitor the uses of magic. While most are content to simply learn a few spells and to use them as a magician might—with no offense to my lady,” he added, nodding to Tort. Tort smiled at him, almost chuckled. “—more than a few, well, fiddle with the spells they know, trying to make their own.”
“That strikes me as the very definition of a wizard,” I observed.
“Indeed! Yet, those who have but recently found their talent in the Art are often in breakthrough, and the effects they can cause with ill-designed spells can be catastrophic. My lady has been most kind in building a containment spell around our guildhall so that we may experiment without endangering others.”
“I’m sure that whatever Tort has done has been for the good of the kingdom and the safety of its citizens. But what is this ‘breakthrough’?” I asked. Thomen looked surprised.
“Majesty, breakthrough is an initial stage of working in the Art. I do not know why, but it seems almost as though all the pent-up power of one’s life is released in the first few days of working with magic; during those few days, even the lowliest wizard may accidentally cause a spell to manifest more strongly than anyone can foresee. It diminishes rapidly, of course, to more mundane levels of power, and then the wizard can be properly trained with a minimum of risk.” He smiled rather sadly, I thought. Then I recalled my first attempt at altering the weather…
“It is important,” he went on, “to have an apprentice understand a few very simple spells for practice during this period, lest they cause considerable harm to themselves or others, unwittingly. It is like having a newborn giant thrashing about with no coordination but with great strength. They need something their clumsy hands can grasp and squeeze.”
“Ah. Well, that makes sense. I take it we’ve had a few… incidents?”
“A few, in the beginning,” he admitted. “Less, now that we have a proper Guild.”
“Sorry about that. I should have set one up.”
“You were busy,” he said, shrugging. “You cannot do everything.” His smile hardened. “Besides, you had to save the world.” Tort shot him a sharp look.
“I think that will be all for tonight, Thomen.” She said. Thomen looked surprised, then shut his face down into a neutral expression. He bowed politely.
“As my lady wishes. By your leave, Majesty?” He asked. I nodded again and he left, back straight, eyes ahead, and didn’t quite slam the door. I looked a question at Tort, but she pretended not to see. Instead, she presented her stump to me.
It was coming along nicely. Bones were already forming in her ankle. Another week and she might have toes again. I counted it as a good sign. On the other hand, all that material was coming from somewhere, so I checked the rest of her over. I couldn’t be sure, because I hadn’t measured before, but I thought the rest of her bones were a bit thinner than before.
“Have you been eating a lot of cheese and drinking milk?” I asked
“No… should I?” she asked, concerned.
“Bones need calcium to grow; milk and cheese have lots. We need to make sure the rest of your bones don’t turn brittle as the spell forms new bone. I think the new bones are drawing too much from your existing bones.”
“Ah. I shall add that to my list,” she agreed. “You asked for many things and I believe most of them shall be accomplished shortly. The two-wheeled carts for the woodcutter are completed; the plow-wagon is taking longer. The things you assembled for me inside your mind have no counterparts out here; all of it must be built, even the plowshares.”
“They already built one like it—” I began.
“Their grandfathers may have. I know not what has become of the old one.”
“Then what was Bronze doing when I called for her?” I asked, puzzled.
“Not all wizards can move mountains,” she observed, playfully. “Some need help in merely moving rocks from a field. Sometimes, she drags several trees from the forests of the Eastrange. Usually, she pulls the stone from our quarry. She always helps when I ask.” She dimpled. “Others have tried to tame her for their own use, not understanding her. That has proven quite amusing.”
“Amusing, hmm?”
“Indeed. There have been no fatalities, but she is not a tame thing, nor a thing to be tamed.”
“I agree. And you both have a wicked sense of humor. What else has been going
on?”
“Wethel was impressed with the spell on his forge, but still wishes to haggle. I have dismissed him from your service in this regard and removed the spell.”
“Oh?” I asked, surprised.
“A king does not haggle.”
“Ah.”
“Indeed. I have engaged another smith and he has promised to put any commission from the king as his first priority. He has asked nothing, saying that he will accept whatever generosity the king may bestow.” I blinked at her.
“How did you manage that deal?” I asked. She smiled, eyes twinkling.
“Do you remember Larel?”
“The mastersmith! Yes, of course. Don’t tell me he’s still alive? He would have to be over a hundred!”
“No, he passed on a long time ago. His line has inherited his works ever since. Larel’s great-grandson now runs his old forge. Kavel is his name.”
“I need to think up something exceptionally nice for him.”
“I am sure you will,” she said, seriously. “The boats you want for the canals are more difficult, however.”
“They are?”
“Boats are large, my angel, and require particular woods, skilled craftsmen, and time,” she pointed out. “Also, I do not believe anyone has ever built such a boat, so long and narrow. Less than half the width of the canal, yet more than a hundred feet long? And with wheels built into the sides?” She shook her head. “The shipwrights think it foolish.”
“They do?” I asked, puzzled again. “Why?”
“I do not know; I have never built a boat. Shall I find out?”
“Yes, please.”
“I shall,” she assured me, then smiled again. “And as for the saddle you asked for, I do not think it necessary.”
“Riding bareback is not pleasant,” I pointed out. Bronze can provide the smoothest ride of any horse I’ve ever heard of, but she’s not at all cushiony.
“But you have not examined Bronze recently.”
“Examined?” I repeated.
“I have spent years with her, my angel. She is no mere enchantment, as is T’yl’s old suit of armor, but a thing alive. She is much more capable than you know.”
“Is that so?” I wasn’t surprised; I knew that already. I just had to say something to keep her talking.
“Yes. She knows you are uncomfortable without a saddle, so she is forming one.”
“She’s growing a saddle?” I asked.
“Her shape is mutable, my angel. I should judge that she will have saddle and stirrups for you within the week. Quicker, if she runs hot for long.”
“I will be damned.” I didn’t doubt she could do it. I just didn’t think of it.
“Doubtful,” Tort said. “Now, I have something for you.”
“Another surprise?”
“Indeed, my angel. First, may I ask why you wear your armor constantly?”
“Two reasons,” I told her. “The minor reason is that it’s distinctive. I’m the king, and I make an impression in it. Everyone recognizes the king, because of the black armor, right?”
“Indeed. And the major reason?”
“I haven’t anything else to wear,” I admitted. She laughed aloud, nodding.
“I thought as much. Has it occurred to you, my angel, that you sometimes ignore the simplest of problems in your quest to solve the greater ones?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m aware of it. I do that. I know it.” I shrugged. “Details only matter when they’re part of a larger picture. Of course, I don’t always see the larger picture, and then I miss the details.”
“Oh. I see.” She seemed nonplussed. “Well, your surprise is here,” she said, laying a hand on the wooden chest beside her. I knelt next to the chair and opened it.
“Clothes?” I asked. Her smile widened.
“If you think it worth the risk to remove your armor,” she answered. I pulled out several items, holding them up and trying to judge the fit.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve gotten kinda used to my armor. I don’t even feel it, really.” Tort said nothing, just sat and smiled and waited.
“All right,” I agreed. “I’ll be right back.” I hoisted the chest over one shoulder and went to the bathroom.
The chest had more than one outfit, mostly in combinations of red, gold, green, and black. I recognized most of it. I put on a tunic and breeches, both dark green with red, orange, and yellow knotwork for the trim and piping; a tabard to throw over everything, in the same colors, but with a solid red circle taking up most of the field, containing a stylized dragon on its back, black, with a great sword of fire, in gold, thrust downward into it. The dragon looked about the size of a medium-large dog in relation to the sword, but it was the idea that counted. The cloak was more like a cape, but with the same impaled-dragon symbol on it.
It all fit perfectly. Of course, they had my measurements from years ago. These very well might be some of my spare outfits from then!
Tort applauded when I returned. I struck a pose and she laughed in delight.
“My angel is handsome,” she observed.
“Only in the dark,” I replied, grinning. She chuckled and gave me a look I couldn’t read.
“And frightening. Among other things,” she added. I adjusted my grin down to a smile; all those teeth. Oops. Which reminded me…
“One moment,” I told her, and engaged my disguise spells. “Better?”
“I think I may prefer you the other way,” she said, tapping her lips with a finger. She shrugged. “My angel is handsome in any of his forms. But, if I may ask,” she continued, “what plans does my angel have for this night?”
“Actually, I have some questions. I’ve been working pretty much all day, but I’ve also been thinking.”
“My surprise is overwhelming.”
“Sarcasm,” I noted. “You’re lucky we’re in private, and you’re the King’s Magician.”
“And that I am still your little girl?”
“You’re not a little girl anymore,” I told her. “You’re a grown woman.” She looked pleased. “But you’ll always have a little bit of that original little-girl place in my heart.” Her expression moved from pleased to delighted, with a sprinkling of something that might be disappointment. Odd.
“You have questions, my angel?” she asked.
“Yes. First, and hopefully least complicated, where the hell is Firebrand? I have this,” I shifted my sword with one hand. “It’s lovely, and it’s ideal for certain types of sword styles. How did I wind up with this, instead of Firebrand? What happened?”
“That is actually a rather lengthy story.”
“Should I sit down here, or do you want me to take you down to the living room?”
“Living room?”
“The one with the fireplace.”
“Ah. Yes, please.”
I picked her up in my arms and carried her downstairs. She seemed to enjoy it quite a lot. Once we were settled in the chairs—carefully, in my case; I weigh a lot more than a human being—she talked history.
Firebrand, being an intelligent being in its own right, was not kept with me for the simple reason that it would get bored. A dragon-spirit in a sword of fire does not need to be bored. T’yl, Raeth, Bouger—and Firebrand—felt that such a situation would not end well.
As a result, Raeth laid it on the nose of the throne during the day and took it back to his chambers at night. Someone needed to keep it company, after all, and it was a good symbol of Raeth’s authority; he was the one entrusted to bear the sword of the king.
It was such a good symbol that Bob showed up one evening and asked for it. It was a very formal occasion; Tort was officially nine years old and remembered it clearly. Six elves and about a hundred other creatures—it was the elves she remembered; they reminded her of me—marched up in formal outfits, banners and flags and horns and drums, the works. They observed all the niceties and protocols, too. Very poli
te, very diplomatic. But the message was clear: we want that sword.
“Why?” I asked. “What was the big deal?”
Tort told me that Bob had started a campaign to unite the races that live in and under and on the Eastrange. The Eastrange was going to become a nation if he had to kill everything in it and repopulate it. Since he was doing this in my name, Firebrand would not only be a potent weapon in that war, but a powerful symbol. Since all we were really using it for was as a remembrance…
It was either Firebrand, or me, they said. We know you hid him somewhere and won’t tell anyone where. While we’re fighting a war, so be it; keep your secret and keep him safe. But we get his sword.
While Tort was not privy to the diplomatic details at the age of nine, she later learned that they negotiated pretty reasonably. Apparently, nobody wanted to discover that I was waking up next week and didn’t think the deal was fair. Can’t say that I blame them, really. Eventually, they decided that Vathula—Bob, or his hordes, renamed the city of Eastgate—would continue to hold the pass against all comers; only allies would go through, as well as traders, diplomats, ambassadors, and so on. Anyone from the western side of the Eastrange would need approval from Bob and Raeth.
Ultimately, however, the decision rested with Firebrand. After all, if it didn’t want to go, it was going to be a serious issue to make it go. Bob was lucky there, or clever; Firebrand likes to kill things. Rather than hang around a throne room, it could be hacking through hordes and setting fire to stuff. That’s a no-brainer for Firebrand.
“And that is how your sword came to be missing,” Tort finished. “T’yl acquired another for you, just in case you needed one upon waking. I believe Firebrand is still in Vathula, although it could be anywhere in the Eastrange.”
“If it’s having a good time, I won’t spoil it,” I mused. “Okay. I’ll send it a spell-based message soon and see what it wants to do. It may be having a great time hacking things in the underdark; I don’t have plans to do much slaughtering here. In the meanwhile, I’ll pop over to the local fire-temple and see how my daughter is doing.”
“As you wish, my angel,” Tort said. She bit her lip and refrained from further comment. I raised an eyebrow and she shook her head.
