Smells Like Finn Spirit

by Randy Henderson

“And what is that?” Mort said.

  “The accused may attempt to prove himself innocent through trial by combat.”

  Of course. Why did it always come down to something like this? “So what does that mean?” I asked.

  Moriarty inclined his head. “If you win, all charges laid against you by Chauvelin shall be dropped.”

  “And should I lose?” I asked.

  “Then you would be subject to what punishments this Echelon deems fit.”

  “Wait,” I said. “How does trial by combat allow the ARC to claim my body?”

  Moriarty smiled, and steepled his fingers. “Why, if the one who defeats you in combat is a representative of your ARC, of course. Then might we grant the request honorably to them as victor.”

  “Wait, you mean—” I looked at Mort.

  “You can’t be serious!” Dawn said. “You’re going to make Finn fight his brother?”

  Mort did not share my expression of surprise.

  *This is a setup,* Alynon said. *They planned this entire exchange.*

  Yeah, I picked up on that, too.

  It was just another political power game being played with my life. If I won the duel against Mort and escaped Chauvelin’s charges yet again, it would be an embarrassment for the ARC, and weaken the position of Rumpelstiltskin’s faction aligned with Chauvelin. If I lost the duel, it would still earn Moriarty points for pitting two arcana against each other, increase resentment of the ARC, and probably be used to push whatever anti-arcana agenda Moriarty had.

  But the Shadows power plays were not my concern. Getting out of here with both my spirit and body intact was. And if nothing else, this would buy time to either escape, or be rescued somehow.

  I was worried I didn’t have that time to waste, however. Whether Mort really believed Grandfather would help protect Mattie, or whether Grandfather had held Mattie’s safety hostage to gain Mort’s allegiance—whether Mort truly believed he was doing what was best for me and the family or not—I knew the reality of what Grandfather was capable of.

  Do you see a better option? I asked Alynon.

  Alynon was silent a minute, then, *Fa, not really, no.*

  “Dawn will still be freed, regardless?” I asked Moriarty.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  I sighed. “Very well, I accept,” I said. “On the condition that whether I win or lose, you honor the promise made to Alynon Infedriel by Chauvelin, and reunite him with Velorain.” I looked to Mort. “If you really can free his spirit from my body, that is, and aren’t just lying.”

  *What?* Alynon said in a genuinely shocked tone. *What are you doing?*

  The right thing.

  Rumpelstiltskin spat. “We owe Alynon Infedriel nothing. He failed to deliver you to us as promised.”

  “No,” I said. “Alynon delivered me to Chauvelin. He held up his side of the bargain. Chauvelin just failed to hold on to me, and I forced Alynon back into my body. Neither of those things are Alynon’s fault.”

  Rumpelstiltskin made a whiny growl sound, then said, “If te’Chauvelin made promises on behalf of the Greatwood, then they shall be honored.”

  Moriarty smiled. “Indeed, and I quite look forward to studying the mechanism by which you two are joined.”

  *I—Thank you, Finn,* Alynon said quietly.

  Don’t thank me yet, I thought back. Somehow, I don’t think Moriarty will be quick or gentle in honoring that promise.

  *Still, it is more than I deserve after what I did to you.*

  You didn’t ask to be trapped in my body, in exile. Believe me, I understand that.

  Moriarty looked to Mort. “Ambassador Gramaraye, do you accept the terms of the contest, to fight your brother for the rights to his body?”

  Mort looked from Moriarty to me. I could practically hear the thoughts running through his head as he weighed the risk of me winning versus the risk of failing in the mission Grandfather had given him, of failing yet again to earn the respect he felt he deserved from Grandfather.

  “I accept,” he said. “But I too have a request. In addition to Finn’s body, I wish to take the spirit of one who was sent here three months ago, a … succubus spirit, named Brianne.”

  I sighed. “Oh, Mort,” I whispered. Of course there was more in this for him than simply pleasing Grandfather or, sadly, more even than protecting Mattie and the family. In fact, getting Brianne back was probably one of the things Grandfather had promised Mort to win his support.

  “You make a demand on top of your demand?” Moriarty asked.

  “I am offering you two spirits, and taking only one body,” Mort replied. “This would simply balance the terms.”

  Lucifer said, “I know of the spirit you seek.” His tone said that he held something back.

  Mort took a step toward Lucifer, his mask of feigned indifference truly breaking for the first time. “Where is she? Is she—” he caught himself, and continued, “Can she be made ready for transfer?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Lucifer said. “She is no longer in our Demesne.”

  “But,” Moriarty said, “we can offer you her location. Clearly, she holds some personal meaning to you.”

  Emotion warred clearly on Mort’s face—relief that Brianne was alive, frustration and disappointment that she remained out of reach.

  “Fine,” he said at last. “I accept the duel, in exchange for Finn’s body and the location of Brianne’s spirit should I win.”

  Dawn strained against her chain, reaching toward Mort. “Mort, you asshole, you can’t be serious! You’re going to take away Finn’s body and leave his spirit to be tortured here?”

  “You don’t understand, Dawn,” Mort replied. “Finn’s messed everything up, including your life, you just can’t see it.”

  “Excuse me?” Dawn said.

  Rumpelstiltskin scowled. “I still protest. We can learn so much from his body.”

  Mort crossed his arms. “You deserve better than him, Dawn. When we get back, the ARC will erase all memory of him, so you can have a normal life again, without almost getting killed every other day.”

  “Who are you to tell me what I fucking deserve?” Dawn said, anger welling in her voice, and I knew her well enough to hear the edges of fear as well. “And who are you to mess with my memories? My mind?” The fear was much clearer now. “Do you know how hard I had to work to get my shit straight to begin with? If you want to fuck with my love or my mind, Finn’s not the one you’ll have to fight!” She stretched her arms apart, straining. She gave a long, slow shout of effort.

  “Dawn—” I began. I didn’t want her wasting her efforts only to bring the wrath of the Shadows Fey down on herself.

  Several links bent and stretched.

  “Holy—” I said.

  The chains shattered, sending shrapnel flying in every direction.

  19

  HARD TO HANDLE

  Mort turned to Dawn, his shocked expression a match for my own as the broken remains of her chains dropped away and evaporated. Dawn charged at him, and he made a belated attempt to swing at her, but she knocked it aside and slid behind him, grabbing him in a choke hold.

  Odysseus, I noticed, did nothing, watching the entire thing stoically.

  “Okay,” Dawn said to the gathered Fey. “Here’s the real deal. You’re going to let us go, or I snap Mort’s neck.”

  “Go ahead,” Moriarty called from above in an amused tone. “He is no vassal of the Greatwood that I should protect him.”

  Dawn pulled at Mort’s neck, dragging him back a step. “I’m serious. Let us out of here, or you’ll have to explain to the damn ARC how you let their mouthpiece die. That can’t be good for you.”

  “Enough of this,” Moriarty sighed. “te’Odysseus?”

  Odysseus advanced on Dawn.

  I pulled at my chains with all of my might, willing them to break. I felt them begin to flex, their resistance to my will like trying to press down a trampoline with my hand alone. Then the pressure snapp
ed back my will, the chains unbroken, causing a momentary dizziness.

  Damn it! I gathered my focus, prepared to try again.

  Odysseus waved at Dawn, and snaked up around her once again, this time looping over her shoulders and around her arms, sealing her in a cocoon of Fey steel and yanking her back from Mort.

  Mort, red faced, turned toward Dawn with fists clenched and shaking.

  “Ambassador, halt,” Odysseus said.

  Mort looked up at Odysseus with something like disdain on his red face. “She’s a mundy, so she’s in my jurisdiction, right?”

  Odysseus shook his head. “This mortal did naught but that which any proud woman might, who has the heart to defend what is hers. And, in truth, I fear that if I let you at her, I will but have to save you once more.”

  A wave of chuckles in the Echelon made Mort’s face go from an angry deep red to an embarrassed fiery red.

  He looked at me, and muttered, “You won’t be ‘hers’ when the ARC is done with her.” Then to Dawn he said, “Whether you believe me or not, this is for your own good.”

  “My fellow lords,” Lucifer said. “This woman did break her bonds. Surely that calls for some small investigation into her memories, to discover the source of such strength.”

  Rumpelstiltskin snorted. “And of course your own faction would receive the king’s share of any such memories, and the strength they offer.”

  Moriarty waved his hand. “We must carefully weigh the benefits of such action against the cost in the ARC’s trust, which is paramount to our greater plans. Such calculations are not to be made lightly. Let us consider them carefully during the duel, and revisit the question of the mundane’s fate after.”

  “Agreed,” Lucifer said with clear disappointment.

  “Agreed,” Rumpelstiltskin said, his tone and distant expression making clear his mind already sought the best advantages for himself.

  “Very good.” Moriarty waved his hand. “te’Odysseus, escort our guests to the Room of Contest.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Odysseus replied. He faced Dawn. “There is no hope of escape, and no place you may escape to even should you overpower every Aalbright here. It would be like jumping from a ship in the midst of the dark sea. So do I need to drag you, or are you once again in possession of your calm?”

  “He’s right,” I said. “This is not the time to fight.”

  Dawn rattled the chains around her, and gave Odysseus a petulant look, but said, “I’m calm as I’m gonna get.”

  Odysseus waved his hand, and the chains disappeared from Dawn, and from my wrists as well. “Follow,” he said, and left the chamber the way we had entered.

  We marched up the passageway, and back into the many-doored hallway.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Dawn.

  “Me? You’re the one about to play gladiator!”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said with far more confidence than I felt. “It won’t be to the death or anything. They still want to have a Finn Memory Buffet, don’t forget.”

  That is true, isn’t it? I asked Alynon.

  *Mostly,* Alynon said, not sounding very positive.

  So, what, I’ll be mostly not dead? I asked.

  *Each time you “die,” you will lose something of yourself, a memory. For you, that will be an inconvenience, perhaps a slight change to your personality. But we don’t know how it will affect me if you die, since we are connected. For me, for any Fey, losing a memory is to permanently lose a part of what makes us … alive. We cannot share our own memories with each other without losing something of ourselves and risking true death. That is why a Fey child is both rare and a true commitment of the parents, a merging of key memories from each of them.*

  What about Mort, in Chauvelin’s body?

  *His risk is no greater than yours. Less, perhaps, since while you were in exile, he received his full arcana training.*

  Thanks for the pep talk, coach!

  Alynon sighed. *Like many things here, the duels will really come down to a battle of will, at least within the rules and limitations of whatever setting you choose. Is that what you wish to hear?*

  Better, I thought. Though I was hoping maybe you could find some way to give me the memories of a master duelist, or, I don’t know, that we could go to a pocket space in the Other Realm where time moves slower and I could train for several months.

  *Hold!* Alynon said, excitement in his voice. *You mean like “Superman versus Mohammad Ali”?*

  Exactly! Why? Is there a way?

  *La! … No!* Alynon said in a tone that suggested I was an idiot. *Your only chance is to use whatever greater experience you possess in focusing your will learned from your time in exile, and the advantage that choosing the duel’s settings may give you, to overcome his arcana and fencing training.*

  I moaned. I’d forgotten that Mort took fencing training at some point during my exile. It used to be mandatory for all arcana when the threat of war with brightbloods and the Fey was more common, and still was something of an Arcana Merit Badge to do so.

  “Well, at least my memories of necromancy training weren’t blocked before coming here.”

  *Exactly so,* Alynon said. *And his surely have, for your Grandfather and the ARC would not have risked his memories to be taken. With any luck, that will give you some kind of edge, or surprise.*

  I took several deep breaths, and tried to practice the mental exercises Grandfather had taught me to focus my will. Any other helpful advice? I asked.

  Alynon sighed, and after a moment of silence said, *Tell me, do you think that’s really air you’re breathing?*

  No. I don’t know, I don’t think so. Why?

  *La, I don’t know either, actually. I think it is intended as one of those Zen koan-type riddles,* Alynon said. *Just remember where you are, and that you are not necessarily limited by the same rules that apply in your world. You can be better, faster, stronger here.*

  “Well, that will come in handy if I have to battle a bionic bigfoot,” I muttered.

  *Sorry. That is the best I can do. I have not exactly engaged in many duels myself, you know.*

  Really? I thought you’d have been in plenty, as popular as you seem to be.

  Odysseus stopped before a door. “This is the Room of Contest. Gramaraye, you will enter here. I shall take your woman to join those who observe.”

  “She’s not my woman,” I said, giving Dawn a smile as my eyes teared up. “She just tolerates me.”

  “Damn straight,” Dawn replied, her own eyes growing watery. “Kick his ass, and let’s get out of this place.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I replied. I pulled her into a kiss. I wasn’t afraid I might die, at least not based on what Alynon had said. But I was terrified that this might be good-bye, that the Fey might choose to haul us each off to separate fates, whatever happened in this room.

  “Don’t leave me here with these jerks,” Dawn whispered.

  “I won’t,” I replied. “I promise.”

  Odysseus put a hand on my shoulder. “It is time, Gramaraye. Enter, and fight well.”

  * * *

  The Room of Contest was entirely green, so perfectly green and evenly lit that when the door closed behind me, removing the faint column of light from the hall, I had a hard time determining where the floor ended and the walls began.

  Mort stood facing me, a good ten paces distant. He still wore Chauvelin’s tight-fitting black clothes, looking like the fifth French musketeer, Dar’ninja, with his hair pulled back into a small ponytail, his pants ending at the knees and his smile ending well before his eyes.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve had a real fight,” Mort said. “I was afraid you were going to back out.”

  I crossed my arms—not so much out of defiance as to hide the shaking of my hands.

  “You should be afraid,” I said in a melodramatic voice. “For I am the terror that flaps in the night. I am the deep scratch on the DVD of your soul!”

  “Always with the jo
kes,” Mort said, clearly upset I wasn’t playing along with whatever script he had imagined for this moment. “That’s your problem, you don’t take anything seriously, just dreaming and joking your way along, leaving us to clean up your messes. But now I’m the one who—”

  “Is about to condemn your brother to eternal brainfuckery? Excuse me if I don’t respect that choice.”

  Mort’s borrowed body actually appeared to slump for a minute under some weight, and he shook his head.

  “As much as I’ll enjoy knocking that smirk off of your face, do you really think I wanted all of this?” he said, waving his hand around him. “I tried, Finn, I did. I warned you what would happen. Do you even have a clue the things I did to make sure you all—”

  “Knew how hard you were working?” I said. “Yeah, you told us pretty much every day. And as much as I’d love you to have your big martyry monologue moment, brother, I’d rather just get this over with. I’ve got such a tight schedule and all.”

  Another door opened to my left, and Hannibal entered the room. Not the cannibal, but Hannibal Barca the Carthaginian general, in bronze breastplate and red cloak, looking like a buff version of Kid from Kid ’n Play, though with a horse-tail helmet in place of his high top fade, and a nose that might have been broken several times and reset into a hawk-like curve.

  “The terms of the duel have been set,” he said. “Three battles, the nature of which shall be selected from the memories of the accused. Prepare for the first exchange.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I haven’t chosen the setting yet.”

  “The conditions of three duels have already been gathered from your most present memories upon entering the room,” Hannibal said.

  “Uh, okay, so—”

  The room changed. I stood suddenly upon an uneven rocky bluff overlooking the sea, littered with the remains of a long abandoned castle or fort. Not Fort Worden. This had the look of a movie set, something familiar, something I’d watched recently with Dawn.

  Mort remained in black, though now he looked like a buccaneer, with sea boots and a sash, and a black cloth mask that covered his head. A rapier appeared in his gloved hand. I looked down to find myself in a tan shirt, brown vest, and brown leather pants, and a rapier appeared in my hand as well. It was a beautiful sword, a true work of art.