Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  Instead, he was up here, watching it all remotely, and directing traffic. I think that’s what made him really, truly appreciate how hard it was for Kelvin to be a general. I miss Kelvin. Seldar misses him, too.

  I refrained from picking on Seldar. It was petty and unkind to rejoice in the fact he was getting a taste of how it felt. Tell me I can’t go fight, will you? Tell me my duty to the kingdom won’t let me risk myself, huh? How’s it feel now, oh knight of the crimson sash?

  It was hard to keep my mouth shut. I really wanted to rub his nose in it!

  It sucks, this being a grown-up, mature, responsible adult. Whatever happened to the old days? I could pour a grad student into the car, dump him and his friends out on the grass at their apartment or dorm, and give them all a hard time about their terrible karaoke skills the next day.

  “What karaoke skills?” they would ask.

  “Exactly,” I would reply, and everyone would laugh. At least, everyone who had recovered sufficiently from the hangovers.

  I miss the university. How did I get from there to here, again?

  While Seldar ran the counter-insurgency action in Karvalen, I sent Bronze down to Mochara to give Tianna and Torvil a lift. I started to cast a gravity-tilt spell for her, but she refused it. She didn’t want it.

  “May I ask why?” I inquired, despite the fact she didn’t actually say anything. She responded with an ear-flick and the soundless stomp of a forward hoof. Clearly, she wanted to push herself and her new internal configurations.

  Intuitively understanding this sort of thing would freak me out if it wasn’t Bronze. With her, I simply knew, and it was both right and natural I should understand. Objectively, it’s weird. To Bronze and I, it’s the way things are. Sometimes I try to think it’s strange, but it doesn’t seem to work.

  Later, when Bronze hit the highway and headed south toward Mochara, I could feel her glee at pushing herself to run at top speed. I recalled the campsites along the way, places where people set up for the night to rest their horses after a long day of barge-towing. I hoped nobody would get trampled.

  Bronze felt certain that wouldn’t happen.

  Regardless, I gave the mountain another instruction. An extra-wide divider between the northbound and southbound canals connecting Karvalen and Mochara seemed in order. Maybe with a definitely-raised center lane, too.

  Meanwhile, I retired to my lab to work on crown enchantments. I think it’s a set of really impressive enchantments, if I do say so myself. Normally, you only put one or two spells or enchantments on an object; you have to take into account spell-structure interactions. Three starts to get unreasonably complicated, four is downright messy.

  The difficulty goes up by the square of the spells, sort of. With two spells, it’s four times more complicated—not from a power perspective, but from a wiring perspective. Don’t cross the wires, don’t let the radiation from one component interfere with another component, that sort of thing. With three spells, you have nine times as many ways to screw it up, with four you have sixteen, with five you have twenty-five, and so on. The numbers may not be exact, but it gives the idea.

  There’s a good reason people usually only have one. It’s also why wizards routinely put spells in crystals. They may be mounted on a single staff, but that’s just an easy way to access them all. The individual crystals are the business. The staff usually has nothing more than a spell to make it easier to feel what spells are present and to access them quickly. It’s a lot better than fumbling in a pouch or wearing a fistful of rings.

  I planned to use a similar technique on the crown, along with a trio of the spare quantum computer cores. The computer cores were only about the size of a thumbnail, but the crown didn’t have anywhere to put them. So I fiddled with a work of art, added a little more gold, and mounted the three additional gems behind the upswept vines of the crown. It wasn’t elvish, certainly, but I spaced them evenly and set them so they would each be directly behind a gap. Doubtless, elves would consider it a complete disaster, artistically speaking, but I like to think I minimized the horror.

  The cores were vital to the functions I had in mind.

  Anyone wearing the crown had a… well, not a copy, but sort of a snapshot of their mental machinery taken and stored in a crystal. Kind of like a computer’s restore point, it had a lot of informational stuff contained in it. Attitudes, beliefs, intentions, desires—it observed the brain of the wearer and made sure the mind inside it matched the previous image in certain key areas, mostly…

  You know what? Skip the technical bits. It took a mental fingerprint the first time you put it on. Later, it compared that mental fingerprint every time you put it on again, checking for interference and outside influence. That’s wrong in a lot of ways, but it does get the intention across. If someone pulled the same sort of stunt with the wearer of the crown as was pulled on Lissette, it would alert everyone that something was wrong.

  It also listened to the experiences of the wearer. If you did something while wearing the crown, it recorded the experience as a memory. Over time, it would gain more experiences of how kings and queens did things. These would be available to the wearer with only a moment’s thought, like recalling something to the forefront of the mind. Kind of like trying to remember what you had for lunch—it’s not on your mind, but with a moment to think about it, it’s not hard to recall. I figured it would be good to have the accumulated Royal Experience and Wisdom kept for future generations of kings and queens. Assuming there was any to accumulate.

  And, of course, the most powerful and intense enchantment on the thing was a multi-phase anti-interference spell. I started with a basic brain-bunker shield, then started thinking of way to get past it. I needed a way to run several different such spells, really, not just one. The separate gems of the crown’s “thorns” were handy in that regard. Each one could hold a spell variation, making it orders of magnitude more difficult to identify, map, and circumvent the crown’s defensive powers—they would work to conceal each other, interfering with attempts to analyze the magic. The spells would make it… well, not impossible, but perhaps unreasonably difficult to alter the crown itself or the mind of the person wearing it.

  The crown can’t, by itself, assure the safety of the sovereign’s mind, but it should be a major stumbling block for the next Evil Grand Wizard who tries to brainwash the ruler.

  I also included a minor resizing enchantment in the metal of the crown. It’s one of those things they never seem to mention in all the fairy tales and fantasies. Anyone can wear the magic boots, the magic cloak, the magic ring, the magic whatever-it-is. Maybe nobody cares about how my size eleven feet don’t fit so well in size ten boots. Or how the cloak made for an elf doesn’t fit so well on someone with a foot of height difference. Or how some people have fat fingers while others have thin fingers. At least with this crown, wearing it, however awkwardly, would cause it to grow or shrink to fit the wearer’s head. Gradually. Over a period of time.

  There’s a metaphor, if you like. Kings and queens never start out as kings and queens. They may put on the crown, but it takes a while before the crown fits.

  While Seldar squeezed the insurrection down to size, I asked Tianna to come visit. Bronze dropped both her and Torvil off at the upstairs door. Tianna came and found me in my workroom, where we discussed some religious issues and how they related to the kingdom.

  “Where’s Torvil?” I asked.

  “He went to have a little lie-down.”

  “Ah. I imagine he’s pretty tired.”

  “Yes. Yes. Exactly. It was a long ride. That’s it,” she agreed, nodding.

  “Good. He deserves a break. I do have some questions you might be able to answer, though.”

  “Fire away, Granddad,” she told me, settling into a large, heavy, ugly chair.

  “I get the impression most religions don’t care to rule a kingdom,” I began, pouring her a glass of something—a brown, sweet juice of some sort. I didn’t much care fo
r it, myself, but it’s what they brought me to drink. Fortunately, I now have spells for that.

  “That’s true,” she agreed, and sipped at her drink. “It hasn’t usually worked out.”

  “Any ideas why? I’d think an all-knowing being would do pretty well at running a kingdom.”

  “Unopposed, I’d say you’re right. But other gods, other opinions.” She shrugged. “If you’re a jealous god, you wind up forbidding all the others.” Then she frowned and looked pensive. “Granddad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this about Zirafel and the Mother?”

  “No. This is about Rethven, or Karvalen, or whatever we’re calling the place.”

  “People generally go with Karvalen, these days. Demon King and all that.”

  “Got it.”

  “You do know She tends to get a bit possessive about things She regards as Hers?”

  “Yes. But I’m trying to reach a compromise between spiritual authority and physical authority. What I’d like to do is put some religious figures into the high council or inner circle or whatever the thing is called.” I sighed. “I really need to start naming stuff. Okay, I’m trying to put priests on the oh-so-cliché High Council.”

  “Priests? Such as Liet, Beltar, and myself? All of whom, I should point out, are already on your council.”

  “I was thinking of formalizing it. Mostly, I want to make use of the existing religions so they don’t feel inspired to try for a theocracy and puppet kings.”

  “Oh, this should be good!” She put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and put her chin on top. “Go ahead. I’m all attention.”

  “You seem to think this is a silly idea.”

  “Oh, no! It’s not often one gets to hear a god-king speak up for other deities, Granddad. Or any of the gods, really, speaking up for all the others.”

  I opened my mouth to say something snappy—and paused. I probably looked stupid with my mouth open and finger pointing, but I had a sudden attack of brain.

  People worship me. Well, they worship the thing on the energy plane who seems to have some sort of relationship to me. We’re probably pretty easy to confuse. But if I’m viewed as a god, then I’m also viewed as a god-king. I’ve been so preoccupied with my image as the Demon King, I completely neglected the other one.

  To be fair, I despise being viewed in either way, but the whole god-king thing is, somehow, worse. Don’t ask me why.

  I was having one of those reality-vs-perception dissonance things. I didn’t like it. I never do. Why couldn’t people be happy with their monster king? I can do monster. I’m comfy with being a monster. I’m disturbed by how comfortable I am with being a monster, yes, but I can deal with it. It’s a shoe that fits, not gigantic shoes to fill. Being a monster is easy!

  Huh. Never thought I’d say that.

  So, there I was, standing there with my mouth open while my brain clicked on and I processed everything.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Tianna made a tsk noise at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It just hit me. You’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” Tianna agreed, laughing. “What am I right about this time?”

  “People see me as a god-king.”

  “They certainly do.” She cocked her head at me and a curl of red hair fell mischievously across one eye. “For someone who can see every grain of sand on a thousand miles of beach, you don’t see yourself very well.”

  “I have an excuse. No reflection.”

  “You’re excused.”

  I rubbed my temples for a moment, thinking. If I wanted to do some political machining while using religious tools, it might be a good idea—albeit a vastly distasteful one—to get a consultation. I don’t know enough about how energy-state beings interact with the world. Someone who does it for a living would be able to give me much better advice than my random guesses.

  In theory, I should be able to do the thing Tianna and Amber do when they consult their deity-thing. The big question, though, was whether or not I wanted to. No, I take that back. The big question was whether or not I felt I needed to.

  “Hold on a minute. I need to talk to someone before I go speaking ex cathedra.”

  “Ex what?”

  “It’s a phrase from my home world. If I remember right, it means pretty much what you do when the Mother starts using your mouth to say stuff.”

  “Oh.” Tianna started to say something, then frowned. “So… should I come back later?”

  “I hope it’ll only take a minute.”

  She sipped at her juice and nodded. Her hand didn’t shake, but I detected a slight tightening around her lips and eyes. Was she nervous? Scared? Maybe. So was I.

  Um… I thought. I don’t exactly know how to go about this… hello? I tried to direct my mental impulse toward the thing I’d briefly spoken with.

  I hear your silent prayer, came right back to me, instantly. It was like thinking at Firebrand, only the thing I was thinking at wasn’t actually there. Or maybe it was, on a multi-dimensional level I was incapable of perceiving. N-dimensional math was never my strong subject, despite intense study. I felt as though I was having an internal conversation with an imaginary friend, only my imaginary friend actually felt present. It was almost like having another me inside my head—maybe even the real me, and I was the imaginary friend.

  I didn’t like it.

  I really wish you wouldn’t call it a prayer, I thought back.

  Fair enough. How about I admit I heard your attempt to invoke me?

  That’s… not bad. I can live with that.

  Happy to help, it replied. What’s so desperately wrong it requires divine intervention?

  Before we get into that, is it customary to have a hard time distinguishing between my thoughts and what you’re saying in my head?

  No, but you’re not exactly a typical priest, either. As I understand it, avatars—physical manifestations of the deity’s presence—really are the deity, so there’s no separation of thoughts. You’re a little different, since we did the deity-thing backwards.

  You mean Amber and Tianna have a hard time telling Sparky’s thoughts from their own?

  No, I wouldn’t think so. They’re only descended from Sparky’s original avatar, not the avatar itself.

  Oh, well—wait. They’re directly descended from the Mother of Flame?

  Of course they are. She put an avatar in the world and bore a child. Where did you think fire-witches came from?

  I didn’t have a good answer to that, so I filed it away for later.

  This too-close mental thing still makes me uncomfortable, I admitted.

  Want me to get Beltar? I could talk through him, if you like, but we’d have to be quick. He’s purely mortal and it’s bad for him.

  I wouldn’t do that to Beltar.

  I know we wouldn’t, but I had to mention it.

  Stop that. Right now.

  Sorry. I’m new at this.

  So am I!

  We paused for a moment, coming to mental grips with each other.

  Do you know, I asked, about my plans for using some religions to supervise some government functions?

  The Lord of Law as part of the city guards? The thing with him and the Lord of Justice and the Lady of Mercy and the Seers of Truth as joint judges and whatnot for the courts? That sort of thing?

  So you do know.

  Not in detail, but I got the gist of it when you asked me about it.

  I hate telepathic communication.

  Yeah. It’s more than a little weird, but at least you get to talk to mortals. I’m stuck with the cheese-brains up here. Telepathy sucks.

  I heard a psychic throat-clearing from Firebrand.

  Sorry, we both thought at it. It seemed mollified.

  So, how can I help? he asked.

  I’m thinking long-term. Will the gods in question be annoyed? Will they try to press for more? Or will they happily do their part? I mean, they seem to have their spec
ialties. I’m encouraging the use of those specialties. Is it going—are they going—to turn around and bite me for it? Or will they be pleased to have some sort of official recognition and do their part to help keep the place running smoothly?

  You know the saying about the difference between a man and a dog?

  Take a starving dog, feed it, and it won’t bite you. That’s the difference between a dog and a man. Mark Twain, right?

  Yep. I’m not sure where these other jokers came from, but they’ve taken their shape and form from the concepts of mankind. They may act like the gods of men, but they’re more like the children of men.

  I groaned inwardly.

  So they’re a bunch of untrustworthy, power-hungry, self-centered brats?

  Some of them, yes. The Lord of Light is weird—everyone says he’s not like he used to be, before the Devourer. I wouldn’t include him any more than you’d include a serpent in an infant’s cradle.

  I hadn’t planned on it.

  I like the way you think. As for the rest, I don’t think you can trust the Mother of Flame as far as you can comfortably throw a comet, but she does seem to be trying to be… conciliatory, I think? Probably something about mutual descendants. The Twins of Need and Desire wouldn’t be on my short list of allies, either. But the Lord of Law is a stodgy, strictly by-the-book guy. The Lord of Justice might or might not do you any favors, but he’ll be ruthlessly impartial and absolutely fair. And, of course, Ssthitch kinda likes you/us, as does the Hunter. We could get away with a lot before they got cranky. There are some others who like the way you lack the groveling gene, while a few of them are still grumpy about your lack of respect. See what I mean?

  Oh, god, the politics of Heaven.

  I was just now explaining it.

  I wasn’t talking about you!

  Oh, right. Yeah, politics get in everywhere, even this particular wing of Olympus. It’s worse than carpenter ants.