by Garon Whited
“That does bring up another question,” I noted. “Where are Tamara and my son?”
Tort’s face went into a very thorough neutral. Not a flicker of expression appeared. Her spirit seemed highly agitated, though.
“I would think it best that you ask Amber for those details, my angel.”
Hmm.
“Amber, huh? Good to know her name, at least. I’d hate to knock on the door and have to ask.” I smiled and Tort returned it, faintly. “But why should I ask her about Tamara and my son—what did Tamara name him?”
“Beryl.”
“Fair enough. So, why should I ask Amber?”
Tort pursed her lips in thought.
“I think it best,” she said. How could I argue? I trust her. I don’t know the situation, and she thinks it’s the best way, so I agree.
“All right, I’ll go ask.”
“Very well. I shall go hide in Karvalen.”
Whoa. How awful is this? And is someone, hopefully, overestimating my reaction?
“That’s pretty bad,” I suggested.
“Yes. I have heard how destructive your temper can be.”
“No, you haven’t,” I said, absently. “Do you think Tamara would be willing to tell me what happened?” Tort hesitated.
“My angel, Tamara is… not herself. Her wits are often scattered and confused.” Tort shrugged. “Some days she is quite lucid. Others, not so much.”
Well, she would be nearly a hundred and thirty years old now, I realized. I suppose even a fire-witch can have troubles with old age. And if it was an unpleasant memory, it would be extremely unkind to ask her to dredge it up.
Also, I’m not sure I’m ready to see Tamara, yet. Not long ago, by my time, she was young and beautiful. Now, eighty-seven years later…
Something inside me was trying to bleed. Every time I realized just how long I had been away from Tamara, it succeeded, and I shied from it.
“Okay. I’ll see go see her later. That pretty much means Amber is the person I should ask?”
“I think she is the only person,” Tort admitted, “unless you wish to discuss it directly with the Mother of Flame. Of course, that may mean speaking to Amber, anyway.”
“No, thank you. I prefer not to have discussions with solar deities after nightfall—or ever, with this one. I guess I’ll go talk to Amber.”
“As you will. By your leave, I will not accompany you.”
“Are you really that concerned about how I’ll react?” I asked. Tort started to answer, then paused to think for a moment.
“I cannot be certain, no,” she admitted, “but there exists the possibility that the wrath of angels will be visited upon the face of the world, and that I do not wish to see in person, or in close proximity.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be back in a bit.”
I walked out, thinking hard. What could be so bad? Did Sparky strike him down for heresy? If Amber was forced by Sparky to burn him for blaspheming, that would explain the reluctance to discuss it. Or, maybe, he inherited the gene for fire-witchery? Men don’t, usually; or maybe that’s just because they can’t control it. He could have self-destructed when he started adolescence. Who knows? Sparky might even have sent him to convert some “heathens” to her cause and he might not have survived their religious objections.
Time to find out.
When I checked in with Bronze, she wanted to come along, so I rode rather than walk. It was a nice night for it, as long as I didn’t breathe. Mochara needs more sanitation, and that’s just all there is to it. Then again, most dark-to-medieval-age towns do.
As she walked along, my feeling of having forgotten something grew stronger. I had her stop while I concentrated on it. It wasn’t really a sense of having forgotten something, I decided. It was a feeling of something I should be doing. Something needed doing. The sensation wasn’t just a general urge to be up and moving. This was a feeling of something specific.
I settled myself, centered myself, and, with great care, examined myself for spells, compulsions, charms, and influences. Was my mind being tampered with again? Was there anything laid on me to make me go somewhere and get ambushed? I already had one magician try to kill me this week. Was this another?
Twenty minutes of searching and I couldn’t find a thing. Okay, fair enough; I am more psychic than I like to think about. Maybe this was something I should investigate.
“Bronze?” I asked. She twitched an ear in acknowledgement and started walking. She didn’t even wait for me to explain.
Sometimes I think my horse is smarter than I am.
We went down a narrow side-street. My feet didn’t quite touch the walls on either side. The street—well, the dirt track—wound around and branched frequently. I hesitate to say we were lost; Bronze seemed to know where she was going. I just sat there and reflected that, yes, this seemed to be the right way.
We entered a section of the town that was nothing but ruins. This part had burned down quite some time ago. The ruins were scavenged for stone, but population pressure had not yet caused the area to be rebuilt. Instead, it was a place of makeshifts, lean-tos, and squatters. Shelter was whatever they could cobble together.
Great. I found the slums. And when I say “slums,” I mean a particularly low grade of Hooverville. A tattered tent would have been a long step up. The upscale dwelling was a hole in the ground with some wooden scraps lashed together to form a roof.
People looked at us from their hovels. No one came out to greet me.
Bronze picked her way carefully through the random shelters, stepping on neither shelters nor people. She came to a stop beside a… hut? It was made of sticks and grass and dirt; I doubted it did more than keep the rain off, and it wouldn’t do that well. Good thing the weather was warm.
A child, an infant, was wailing inside. I slid down and crouched to look in.
The mother lay on her back, the child resting on top of her. The mother was starving; so was the child. Judging by the rags, the bruises, and the hidden injuries visible only to the eyes of one who sees life, my guess was that she was either a prostitute or was raped repeatedly. If I had to bet, I’d go with the latter; a prostitute would have made more money than this.
She opened her eyes, squinted at me in the dark. I raised two fingers and provided a candle-worth of illumination. She clutched the crying child and scooted away from me, threatening the flimsy structure with her movement.
“What do you want?” she quavered. The child cried louder.
“That depends on what you want,” I replied. “I think I’m here for you.”
I could have phrased that better.
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She made a mewling sound of terror and promptly fainted. I caught the baby as she slumped over; I didn’t want her to fall on it. The infant did not appreciate the rough handling.
Sitting there in a flimsy lean-to, cradling a soiled and bawling baby, next to the unconscious and almost-as-filthy mother, I wondered what I had done wrong in my life to wind up in this situation.
And then it started to drizzle. Great.
“Bronze?”
She shook her mane and backed up a step: Got me. I just work here.
“Thanks oodles.”
Well, fine. I could either walk away and try not to be bothered by the psychic tickle that dragged me over here—right, like that was going to happen—or I could make things more comfortable for everyone involved and see if that helped. I went for the latter.
Cleaning spells. Sleep spells. A quick ride to the seaward gate and a brief word with the guards there. Down to the beach. Tendrils raking through the ocean for driftwood and fish, followed by a fire and fillets. Much better. The drizzle even stopped. I decided it was time to release the sleep spells.
The mother opened her eyes and immediately checked for the baby. It was asleep, but she took a while to assure herself of that. Only then did she turn her attention to me.
“Hi,” I said. “Have some fish. No, don’t
talk. Not a word. Just eat a little bit; you can have it all, but you should eat it in small doses. Do that first.”
She couldn’t resist; she really was starving.
“Do you know where the Lady Tort’s house is?” I asked. She nodded. “Good. You can find me there or leave a message. Do you need anything else right this second?”
She shook her head, then covered her eyes with her left hand while inclining her head toward me, as though I was too bright to look at. I took it for another form of bow, or genuflection, or salute, or something. She lifted her head and went back to eating.
“And if you’ll stop by in the morning, you can have some milk for the little one,” I told her. “Maybe afterward, I’ll have time to talk. Right now, I have things to do. Excuse me.”
I stood up, sprang up on Bronze, and we went back up into Mochara.
“Majesty?” asked a guard as we hurried through. We halted for a moment.
“What is it?” I asked, pleasantly. He was being respectful without being obsequious. I like that.
“Do we leave the gate open for your… um?”
“I doubt we’re going to be attacked tonight, but no; you can close it. You’re on watch, right?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If she wants in, let her in. If someone starts to give her a hard time, stop them.”
“I’d do that last part anyway, Majesty.”
“Good man.”
We headed off to visit my daughter again. I wondered if anything else was going to get in the way.
As it turns out, yes; two carters—men with oversized wheelbarrows, essentially—had gone down a narrow street in opposite directions and were arguing about who should back up, to the apparent amusement of a mongrel dog scratching itself. Bronze and I listened to the argument for about four seconds, then she shifted into reverse until we reached a branching way. We stuck to the main streets after that.
I started actively looking around for anyone following me, or scrying portals spying on me. I didn’t know for sure that someone was putting obstacles in my way, but it was good practice to be watchful. As it turned out, I didn’t see anyone or anything, and arrived without further delays.
The fire-sun-temple-church-thing was one of the few buildings made entirely out of stone. Not brick, but stone, which I presume was laboriously cut and transported. Compared to Hagia Sophia or the Parthenon, it wasn’t really all that much of a temple, but it had a certain elegance to it.
The main area was constructed of some light-colored stone—judging by the fine grain and hardness, some igneous rock. This made up a flat, open area surrounded by pillars and topped with a dome. An oculus in the center of the dome would allow a ray of sun to shine down during the day. The pillars were buttressed with an angled brace, making them look like lopsided, inverted “V”s. Still, that was probably necessary to avoid having the dome collapse. It actually looked rather graceful, taken all at once.
In the center of this area was a statue of Tamara, carved from some white stone. At least, it looked like Tamara, as I remembered her, and looking at it made me miss her quite a lot. It was probably a representation of the Mother of Flame, using Tamara as the model. Long, flowing hair seemed to merge with the flowing gown. The face and arms were the only “skin” visible and were polished to a high gloss. It would gleam in the sunlight.
To one side was a smaller building, probably the priestess’ residence. What was once a short, dirt path led to it. It appeared to have been exposed to some awful heat, causing it to glaze and harden. If I were less cynical, I might wonder how that happened.
We stopped to regard the setup for a moment, then I dismounted. Bronze snorted thick smoke and pawed at the ground, her ears laid back. She didn’t like this at all. I rubbed her neck
“What’s wrong?” I asked. She snorted crimson flames from both nostrils. I followed her gaze.
That statue was looking at us, and Bronze was apparently pissed off enough to be thinking about kicking it to gravel and stomping the gravel into sand and melting the sand into glass before stomping it into sand again. I know this because… well, because. Bronze didn’t think too highly of her.
I looked at the statue sharply and my life-vision, for lack of a better term, could see the yellow-white glow of something inside it. It was definitely looking at us.
“Good evening,” I offered, keeping a hand on Bronze’s chest, under her neck. I couldn’t keep her from charging the thing if she took it into her head to do so, but I could make sure that she knew she shouldn’t. The thing inside the statue did not deign to respond. I shrugged and led Bronze past it to the residence door. Bronze kept her head turned and an eye on the idol.
I had to knock for a while before anyone answered. After the second time, it occurred to me that it was late; people tended to go to bed when the sun went down. Being an undead that doesn’t need to sleep, I tend to lose track of that particular social nicety. Still, once I started knocking, it would be worse to walk away.
The door came open and light poured out. A woman, late thirties/early forties, blue eyes, hair like a river of fire down her back—not a metaphor; it looked as though her head was on fire and the flames were burning downward past her waist—looked out at me with an expression of not just displeasure, but annoyance.
“What do you want burned off you at… this…” she began, and trailed off. Her eyes widened, flicked to Bronze, back to me, widened more.
“Sorry for the late hour,” I said. “I just woke up a little while ago, found out I was a father, got roped into being a king, and finally managed to make it over here to see you.” I smiled. “It’s been that kind of week. Sorry about that.”
She glanced at the domed area, then looked at me. I wasn’t sure what her expression meant. We stayed like that, just looking at each other for several seconds.
“Won’t you please come in?” she said, finally, and her hair dimmed slightly.
I stepped inside and she shut the door behind me. Her hair dimmed more as she did so, but remained bright enough to illuminate the surroundings. The room was small, obviously only an entry area, and she led me into a larger room just beyond. We sat on backless stone benches. She took the one with a cushion, in the middle. I took one in the middle of the arc around it.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” she said. I tried to gauge her tone and failed. I couldn’t even cheat and look at the lights of her soul; the flames were too bright inside her.
“I have,” I agreed. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” she asked, making it sound like a real question.
“I am. I hadn’t intended to be gone at all, but, you know, hostile church leaders, crazy magicians, holes in the edge of the world, demonic invasion, that sort of thing. I did my best,” I told her. She smiled, just a little.
“I suppose so.”
An awkward silence limped into the room, wandered about for a bit.
“What do you want?” she finally asked.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I mean, it’s obviously too late to be Dad. You are my daughter, aren’t you?”
“If you are Halar, King of Karvalen, then yes.”
“That’s me. And you are Amber, yes?”
“Yes.”
“A good name,” I said, nodding. “Your mother and I worked out some names for you and your brother. I’m glad we did that in advance, at least. I would like to see him, and your mother. Where are they?”
See? I can be subtle.
Amber pursed her lips and looked at the wall.
“Mother is in the House of the Grey Lady. Beryl died some time ago.”
Tort’s suggestion that I ask her echoed in my memory. If Amber didn’t want to talk about it, should I find out somewhere else? Now was not the time to be pushy. On the other hand, if I just dropped it, would that make me sound like I didn’t care at all? Maybe just a little pushy would be good.
“Ah. That’s too bad; I was looking forward to meeting him. When did he d
ie? How? What happened?”
“I would rather not speak of that,” she said.
“Fair enough,” I said, tabling the matter. Pushed far enough.
“What do you want?” she repeated. I got the impression I made her uncomfortable. Because I’m her father? Because I’m a nightlord? Because I’m the king? Or something else? Or all of it?
“Can’t I just come by to see how my daughter’s doing? It would be nice if we could be friends, even if I was more than a little absent. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
She looked at me with narrowed eyes. I realized that they were the blue color my eyes used to be; I never wore them as well as she did, though. Fortunately, the rest of her appearance came from Tamara’s side.
Oh, great. I just noticed that my estranged, full-grown daughter is sexy. Damn! I don’t know how I feel about that, but my knee-jerk reaction is to be slightly horrified. I mean, I don’t know this woman, but she’s hot. Aaaaand… she’s my daughter. Who I didn’t raise. She feels like a sexy stranger.
Okay, this is more than slightly weird.
Immortality problems. Again.
“I am not necessarily against it,” she finally said. “It is… awkward.”
This whole conversation is awkward, I thought.
“Of course,” I agreed. “I’ve been gone all your life; I was never a father to you. I’m some stranger you’ve heard about but never met, and now here I am… of course it’s awkward. I understand.”
“That’s not all of it. You are other things, as well.”
“Oh.” I decided to go with the whole undead problem and see if she corrected me. After all, what was it I once called a relationship between a nightlord and a priestess of a sun goddess? A recipe for crispy disaster?
“Okay,” I said. “I get it; I’m not entirely alive. Has your goddess said anything about it?”
“She has been silent, so far.”
“Should I go? So you can ask her?” I offered. Amber looked startled.
“You want me to consult Her?”
“I’m just saying that I’ll come back later if you want to run it past her.”
