by Garon Whited
“In this, an energy plane, matter cannot exist. You are a relatively simplistic energy-form, at the moment, currently mimicking extraordinarily complex processes that cannot operate on a lower-energy plane.” She paused for a moment, thinking.
“Since you are stuck with metaphors, here… I mean no offense, you understand; the comparison I am about to make is merely illustrative.”
“I understand. Go for it.”
“Very well. You are the monkey that has been taken from the jungle. You wear clothes like a person, use a knife and fork like a person, even sip delicately at the champagne like a person—but you do not understand anything about why these things need to be done, the timing, the combinations, the social conventions, anything. Outside the metaphor, most of this is taking place below your conscious level; your ability to think in metaphors is the only thing that is keeping your energy-pattern from disintegrating under the incomprehensible.”
“Okay,” I said, slowly. “I don’t understand, but I think you’re telling me that I can’t understand—or, at least, that I don’t have time to learn before living on this plane turns me into scattered sparks. Or, time to learn before the ‘monkey’ dies from eating too much human food.”
“That is wrong in many ways, but good enough.”
“That sounds Reasonable, but possibly only because I definitely do not want to stay. So, what do I do to get back to my corporeal form?”
“Since it cannot hold you, you must release a sizable portion of the accumulated power, as well as expend—from your perspective—everything that you currently hold within you. Drain the pool and then bleed to death. That should reduce you to such a low energy level that a matter-based plane can sustain you. It isn’t certain; it is merely logical.”
“Why isn’t it certain?”
“It has never happened before. No other material being has ever been a nascent God of Fire and tried to suck the life out of a Goddess of Fire. There have been other beings that have attempted to reach godhood, even reached this plane of existence. Very few of them have managed to adapt to life as a being of energy, and each of them adapted slowly, rather than catapulting directly here via transfusion.” Her lips quirked in amusement. “Your presence is a rare occasion.”
“Well, I don’t plan to repeat it!” I told her with some force. “Okay, maybe I can go home, or won’t have a choice. While I’m here, though, what happened inside? What’s his name? Father Sky? Why was he trying to flatten my face?”
“You attacked the Mother of Flame,” Reason told me. “Having wounded her, he doubtless feels affronted on her behalf. It may also be a slight case of jealousy; she has boasted of your service in the past.”
“I thought she was attached to the Father of Darkness?”
“She boasted of your service, not of your relationship,” Reason clarified. “Even so, she has had… well, quite a few consorts. She was once only a fire goddess, but has since worked diligently to add the sun, fertility, and healing to her portfolio. She is quite good at both the fire and the sun, fairly skilled with fertility, and has some work yet to do in cementing her abilities with healing.
“I think,” Reason continued, “her main avenue into healing has something to do with sick people noticing that staying warm by the fire helps them feel better.” Reason smiled. “She does still tend to burn things even when she is trying to help them.”
“I’ve noticed that in her priestesses. They have to practice to keep from torching things.”
“They would not need to be skilled if the Mother of Flame was a better life goddess,” Reason assured me, possibly with a faint sniff. “The energies she lends all have the mark of fire upon them.”
“That explains a lot.”
“I can give you Reasons for that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You get to make awful puns, but I don’t?”
“I am the goddess.”
“Typical. Okay, you mentioned something about me having been a worshipper, and maybe not being one, and so on?”
“Gods cannot worship other gods. It does nothing. It is similar to pulling up on your shoelaces in order to rise into the air. While you are here, you cannot take the energies of a matter-plane and direct them to my energy-plane.”
“Got it. So, if I’m a god—however temporarily—I’m not one of your worshippers, even though I think Reason is darn important.”
She dimpled in a smile. Reason has dimples? That’s like saying Logic has pretty eyes. Which, come to think of it…
“There is more to it, but that is the fundamental point, yes,” she agreed.
“And when Father Sky, with his lightning-axe—that, I presume, splits the sky—tries to disembowel me later…?”
“He has gone to request the Mother of Flame’s presence. If she chooses to attend, the gods will listen to you both and vote on what to do.”
“How much trouble am I in?”
“Since you intend to depart shortly, I should not think you need worry about it.”
“Oh?”
“You were a lower being when you attacked the Mother of Flame. She cannot complain about that; it would make her look weak. However, now that you have come here and shown yourself to be one of us, you are protected by the covenant: No god may attack another. Any who does will be destroyed by all the others.”
“Will that do me any good when I go back down?”
“Possibly. I will try to make them see Reason.”
“I have utter faith in your persuasive abilities.”
“That will help.”
“Then I’ll try to get back.” I took her hand, kissed it. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
She smiled and kissed my forehead.
“Everything happens for a Reason,” she said. I rolled my eyes and she chuckled.
I walked into my pool and stood there for a moment, watching Reason head into the temple.
Okay, problem: I existed as an energy-state being. My net energy content was too high to be contained in a matter-based container, such as my usual body. Possible solutions? First, reduce the energy content of my present form. Second, increase the energy capacity of my physical body.
Great. A simple set of solutions.
Now, how do I do that?
Well, when in doubt, take a swing at it and see what happens. I sure as hell wasn’t staying here until someone decided to throw me out of heaven. I heard what happened to the last guy.
I looked into the surface of the pool and used it like a scrying mirror. Yep, there I was, lying on an altar in my shrine in Mochara. It was full of people—men, women, even children—all praying. I could feel it.
Right. So. Since I don’t know what I want to do, I’m going to have to rely on metaphors and visualization again. That’s going to be power-intensive, but that’s a good thing in this case. The more I know about what I want to do, the less power it takes, because I can apply it more precisely. In extreme cases of confusion, it’s even possible to Wish Really Hard and back it with tons of power to get your wish… and this might be such a case. At least it should help with disposing of accumulated energy.
Time to find out.
Focus on my body. It’s empty. Of course, it’s night and I’m dead. It doesn’t need to be doing anything tedious, such as breathing, so I don’t know if it’s still in any condition for me to wear it again.
Let’s try it on for size.
I extended a toe into the vision in the water and tried to slide it into my body. It worked, so I kept going. I got into it in much the same way I might get into a tight-fitting shoe, then I stuck; I had the equivalent of half of one of my feet crammed into what should have been a full set of clothes. My body was, indeed, much too small to hold me.
All right. Good to know. That’s my starting point.
I waved a hand in a circle, starting the water in my pool to spinning. It spun faster and faster, forming a whirlpool; through that opening, I viewed my flesh. I pushed the power down into the flesh, c
hanging it. The flesh itself was still flesh, but, from a spiritual perspective, I wanted that skinsuit altered, tailored.
From the outside, it should still look the same. On the inside, though, I wanted more room. If I’m currently a self-propagating energy-state being, as I expect, my fleshy nervous system needs to be able to contain a self-propagating energy-state being. So it needs to be, using an electrical model metaphor, capable of handling much greater voltage and amperage—it needs to be the equivalent of a spiritual superconductor.
That assumes, of course, that my fleshy nervous system has anything to do with it. Crap, damn, and bugger!
Okay, well, it’s still a good metaphor. So is the tailoring metaphor. If there are other channels in my flesh—some sort of magical or spiritual conduits—those need to be the equivalent of superconductors and could doubtless stand some improvement along those lines. I might not know what they are, where they are, or even what they’re usually for, but I don’t need to know what kind of stitching is in a seam when I pull on a set of pants. I can feel these sorts of things as I try on my skinsuit and instantly know they need a bit more room in the crotch.
The water that was power swirled about me, funneled downward, and did as I commanded.
Now, while that lets the skinsuit out in various places, I thought, I could stand to go on a diet, like trying to fit into skinny jeans, just, in this case, fitting into a tight skinsuit. Hopefully an elastic skinsuit.
I exerted myself, thinking of the power I had absorbed by lying in the pool, drinking from the fountain, and, for all I knew, even existing on this plane. Let’s use some of that power. Keep the patterns that make me unique, but diminish in size. Lower the energy content. Go from an industrial blast furnace to a single candle in the darkness. Shrink it all down, just enough to fit…
The pool was empty, save for the small, steady trickles from the fountain. It would take a long time to fill up again at that rate, but that wasn’t a concern. If I could get out of this plane, lower my vibration rate to match the matter-based plane, I shouldn’t have to deal with any of this stuff again.
There was enough water dribbling in for my purpose: to see my body. It didn’t look any different, but I wasn’t looking at it from a god’s perspective. I was looking at it like a man. I don’t know how to look at things like a god. All I see are metaphors, hallucinations, and anthropomorphic personifications.
I think I want to stick with seeing things on more material planes of existence. Flesh, blood, life, souls, magic, vital energy—you know, mundane stuff.
I stepped down into my body again, slipping it on. It was much roomier, now. Or was I much smaller? Probably a bit of both. I worked my way down into it, slid my soul back into my flesh, stretched it up over my head, and pulled it closed.
Interlude
The Prince tugged his shawl tighter and relaxed back in his chair.
“Well, that was hardly unexpected.”
The wizards gathered around him nodded, heads bobbling up and down. The one in charge of the illusion signaled the one with the mirror and they both dismissed their spells. The images in the viewing room dissipated.
“Get Rakal. I want to talk to him.”
Moments later, the mirror rippled and revealed Tyrecan’s workroom. Tyrecan looked up. He activated his own mirror and looked into it. His expression flickered between surprise and fear, settled on respectful.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Fetch Rakal.” This was done. “Rakal. Good. Do you still have Keria tied down?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied, cautiously. “She is not physically restrained—”
“Skip it; it’s a metaphor. She’s still under control, right?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Good. Give orders through her. The armies of the Eastrange are a potential liability; send them to attack his mountain.”
“Lord… is it wise to continue to antagonize him?” Rakal asked. “I deal with the demons from beyond the world every day and, while I respect their power, I do not fear them. Him, I fear, for I know of no power to control him.”
“I will control him,” the Prince snapped, then coughed and spat. “You just do as I tell you and he’ll come to us, to me, on my terms.”
“Of course, my lord,” Rakal agreed. “Shall I use his sword as an inducement?”
“Hmm,” the Prince said, wiping his mouth with a cloth. It came away with a trace of blood and spittle. “You’re not a total idiot,” he said, finally. “I’ll think about that. There should be a way to make use of it. Meanwhile, get the armies moving.”
“I shall have words with Keria as soon as she wakes.”
“See to it, then.” The Prince waved a withered hand at his wizard and the mirror’s image rippled into reflection again.
Rakal sat down next to Tyrecan.
“What do you think?” Rakal asked.
“I’m not being paid to think,” Tyrecan replied, “just to observe and report.”
“You still have an opinion.”
“My opinion is much like yours. I don’t want to be anywhere near that thing. He frightens the life right out of me.”
“It’s not fright that will drag the life out of you,” Rakal said, darkly.
“That doesn’t help.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m happy doing my job,” Tyrecan replied. “You call up dark powers and bind them. I see things far away. If I wanted to take a more active part in dangerous doings, I’d have studied spells for that.”
Rakal snorted and rose from his seat.
“Be that way, then. I can’t imagine enjoying life for another century like that, much less ten thousand years.”
“Ask me in ten thousand years,” Tyrecan countered, “if you’ve managed to survive that long.”
Friday, April 30th
Morning dawned and I woke up.
That’s always a good way to start the day. It saves a lot of confusion later. Unfortunately, I had a lot of confusion immediately. My dreams were terrible things, full of conflict and arguments and fighting… and maybe something pleasant, here and there… and… something. Something important, but annoying. Something I didn’t like at all, but might not have to deal with? Was it something I should remember? Was it an important dream? I’ve had dreams of prophecy and visions of the future, visions of the past, visions of people and places…
Whatever. If it was important, it would come to me. My headspace was still somewhat out of order. Once my memories—and other people’s memories—were organized, I’d remember it.
I sat up and looked around. I recognized a lot of the people in the room; I broke most of their arms not too long ago. My first impulse was to get up very suddenly and be unpleasant. Fortunately, Tort was sitting next to me and holding my hand. She was dressed in work clothes, though, so it wasn’t a social occasion. Still, if she was there and unworried, the situation deserved the benefit of the doubt.
Standing over me was a statue. Not a very good one, but it was clearly me.
I knew exactly what to do.
“Tort? What’s going on?”
“You had a… conflict? Argument?... with the Mother of Flame,” she said, carefully. “At least, that is what I gather from discussion with your daughter.”
“Ah, yes. We did have a bit of a domestic dispute. I recall. Sparky bitched about it to Father Sky and he punched me in the face…” I shook my head. When did that happen? I couldn’t recall, exactly. “Where am I?”
“Um,” Tort said. Everyone was looking at me with expressions ranging from carefully blank to unabashedly awestruck. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that I had a fight with the gods and survived. Tort ignored this and continued.
“May I introduce Sir—that is, may I introduce Kelvin, a gentleman who wishes to be a knight in your service? He is the provisional head of the provisional Order of Shadow, since you have not personally ratified it.” She paused. “And since you have taken most of their swords,” she added.
I remembered him. He showed up on the very first day. He was the one who kicked a guy, told him a knight didn’t belong in the dirt, and helped motivate they guy to get to the water. Since then, he’s been out in front on most things, yelling for his partners to keep up, or dead last, encouraging the guy just in front of him to try harder.
Kelvin was a medium-sized man, perhaps a bit long in the arms, with callused hands, short, dark-blond hair, and a jaw like an anvil. I could have hammered horseshoes on it. He was quite handsome, but relatively unimpressive until I noticed his forearms. I didn’t break either of those; I would have remembered. The things reminded me of Popeye the Sailor; they were thick and solid and looked like granite sculpture wrapped in skin. He could have cracked coconuts just by squeezing them, and his hands were big enough for it, too.
He genuflected—dipped to his left knee, planted his right fist on the floor next to his right foot—and stood up.
“Your Majesty,” he said. His voice was pleasantly deep and smooth. I wondered if he sang. “I apologize for the behavior of the more impetuous members of the Order.” He held out his sheathed sword. It was about the size of Firebrand—four feet of blade and a two-handed grip. If he practiced with it regularly, I could see why he had forearms like other people’s calves. Hell, like some people’s thighs.
“I have borne this blade in my attempts to serve the interests of the King, and now I surrender it to you. It is my hope that I will one day be found worthy to bear it in your name.”
I swung my legs to the side and stood up. Nothing fell off; nothing came loose. I actually felt fine. Would I continue to feel fine after the sun went down and I had to deal with my vampiric digestion again? I suspected that wasn’t going to be the problem, but I didn’t know for certain. I made a mental note to be somewhere I could afford to be “ill” in a supernatural fashion.
I took the sword and half-drew it. No Damascus striations, but very good steel; it’s one of the things Karvalen does well. Typical enchantments for strength and sharpness. It would take a lot to notch the edge, but even where it had been notched, it had been ground down and sharpened. It was a workmanlike weapon. I slid it back into the scabbard.
