Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

“That’s right,” the Changer says. “I couldn’t very well carry it in any but human form and I lacked both clothing and a desire to make myself vulnerable.”

  “We should try to retrieve it tonight,” Vera says. “I already know Lovern’s part of the story. I’ll go.”

  “Be careful,” Lovern cautions. “Our enemy may very well expect some such action.”

  “I will,” Vera says, “but I’d welcome a chance at the bastards.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t get one,” Lovern says dryly. “They seem formidable.”

  “Perhaps too formidable for Vera to deal with alone,” Eddie says. “No insult intended, but whoever this is has given both the Changer and Lovern a run for their lives.”

  Vera nods slowly. She hasn’t acquired her reputation for wisdom for nothing. “You’re right. Should I wait until morning or is someone free to come with me?”

  “If Arthur can spare me,” Eddie says, “I’ll go.”

  Arthur makes a gesture of agreement as old as his first kingdom. “Go, then, both of you, but be careful.”

  “We will.”

  While they talk, the Changer looks around the kitchen, admiring the indirect lighting, the thick, rough-hewn beams from which polished iron and copper cook pots hang. Painted tiles border the wall above the countertops: bright red chilies whose shape suggests a red dragon, round yellow onions, fat turnips set on their points like shields. Even here, Arthur’s decorating reflects the dream of Camelot.

  When the Changer retakes his seat, his daughter drags her bone across the floor and comes to sit on his bare feet. Her subvocal growls as she chews are channeled through his flesh to mingle with his blood.

  “So, I gather that Lovern also had an adventure this afternoon,” he says. “Tell me about it.”

  Lovern’s thin, nervous fingers shred a paper napkin. When he speaks, his words are breathy and hesitant.

  “I went out to Old Town this afternoon, shopping for fetish carvings and other oddities. The trip was made on impulse. I told no one but Vera—Arthur and Eddie were busy with some problem that had cropped up. So I just went out, I didn’t even take a car. I felt like walking, and I knew that if I got tired, I could call for a ride back.”

  “I don’t recall where Old Town is from here,” the Changer admits. “Is it a long walk?”

  “Long enough. As I said, I felt like walking.”

  The Changer nods. He knows the impulse, but he suspects that for Lovern, the desire to travel under his own power is differently motivated. In ancient days, Merlin’s magic had been inhibited by iron. Although cars contain less metal than once they did, traveling within one might make Lovern ill.

  “So you walked to Old Town… and?”

  “And I walked around, bought some fetish carvings, talked to a silversmith about a commission, had lunch, visited the Albuquerque Museum, did some other shopping. And all the time I was walking, I kept a touch of awareness watching my back.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Peaceful. Sunshine and nothing more.”

  Lovern finally notices the mutilation he is performing on the napkin and stops.

  “Finally, I took my packages and headed back here. The wind was blowing quite a bit, though, and I finally decided to duck into a shop, borrow the phone, and call for a lift.

  “I called and got Vera. I wasn’t far from a small park, so we agreed that she would pick me up there.”

  “Poor Vera,” Arthur interjects, “is going to start insisting on being paid by the mile.”

  “So, after getting a cup of hot tea, I went into the park,” Lovern continues, “and took a seat at a picnic table. One of my purchases had been a book of local Pueblo Indian legends, so I started reading.

  “I wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the legends were interesting, and my tea was warm. Still, I don’t know how I could have been so completely distracted. I didn’t sense the rattlesnake until it was coiling to strike.”

  The Changer raises an eyebrow. “A rattlesnake in a public park? Unlikely.”

  “Exactly, unlikely, not impossible—rather like a golden eagle attacking a raven over a vacant lot.”

  “From the fact that you’re still here, I assume that you got out of the way before the snake could strike?”

  Lovern flushes dark red. “Actually, I didn’t. I was wearing hiking boots under my trousers. The rattlesnake’s strike came in low—I think it was compensating for the picnic table—and it caught me in the ankle. Its fangs couldn’t penetrate both my pants and the padded boot.”

  “Lucky for you,” the Changer says. “Very.”

  “I thought so,” Lovern answers, “although at the time, I was more interested in killing the damn reptile. I had a walking stick with me…”

  He pauses and the Changer mentally translates that to “wizard’s staff.”

  “The end was shod in silver and I brought it down on the snake’s back while it was trying to dislodge its fangs from my boot. I’m no Hercules, but I’m strong enough that I should have broken its back. Instead, I only succeeded in making it thrash harder. But it wasn’t until it began to sink into the ground that I realized that I was dealing with a magical being.”

  “A shapeshifter?” the Changer asks.

  “The thought did cross my mind,” Lovern answers. “In fact, I briefly entertained the idea that it might have been you.”

  The Changer raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t choose to comment further. He and Lovern have been allies but never really friends. The fault is his own—he has never forgotten the black sorcery of which Lovern is capable.

  “I dismissed the idea almost immediately,” Lovern continues hastily. “As I said, it just came in a flash. At the time I was more interested in keeping the damn thing from getting away.

  “No one else was in the park—I suspect the increasingly windy weather was keeping everyone indoors—so I sent a small charge down my staff. It went right into the rattler. There was a flash of white light that would have seared my eyes if I hadn’t been wearing sunglasses. Even so, I was blinking away spots.”

  Lovern grins ruefully. “I don’t mind telling you that I was terrified that some other attack would come while I was blinded. When my vision returned, this remained under my staff heel.”

  Taking a folded bandanna from his shirt pocket, Lovern carefully unwraps what appear to be a few pebble-sized pieces of broken greyish white stone. As he nudges them into rough order, the Changer realizes that they are the remnants of a stone carving of a rattlesnake on its belly.

  It is crudely done, the coils compacted together, the scales and the bands of the rattles suggested rather than carefully detailed. The head remains intact: triangular, slit eyes set high on the sides, fangs just visible.

  “A fetish carving,” the Changer says. “One that suggests the old symbolism—see how the shape of the coils recall a lightning bolt? I suspect that this rattler might have delivered more than poison.”

  “My thought exactly,” Lovern agrees. “And that explains why it released so much energy when I attacked it. My charge overloaded what it could contain.”

  Replete with chicken and out of the wind, the Changer is of a mood to worry this problem. “So our enemy is a sorcerer and a shapeshifter.”

  “Perhaps,” Arthur says cautiously. “Our enemies could be many—a sorcerer, a shapeshifter, a warrior.”

  “Or,” Lovern says, “a bit of each. We could face a cabal. It wouldn’t be a large group. We surely would have heard rumors if a large group gathered against the King.”

  “The King?” the Changer says. “Only you and I have been attacked.”

  “Perhaps,” Lovern says urbanely. “But we could consider the attack on your family an attack on Lil if, as we have hypothesized, you were meant to assault her.”

  Arthur interjects, “Changer, could the eagle that attacked you have been a sorcerous construct?”

  The Changer muses. “Perhaps. I did not consider it at the time, perhaps because of my own tendency to
shift shape to deal with difficulties.”

  Arthur makes a note. “How about an illusion?”

  The Changer bristles. “I can tell the difference between an illusion and a real eagle.”

  Arthur holds up a hand, neither apologizing nor relenting. “We are collecting information, Changer. Given the wind and the gathering darkness, I felt it was a possibility.”

  “He asked me the same thing,” Lovern says, “but I had the broken fetish to show him.”

  The Changer nods. “I don’t think that it was an illusion, but you’re right. The circumstances were not ideal. I was worried about another shot from the rifle—that was real enough. It felled the bird I was flying with.”

  “That bird saved your life,” Lovern says. “You mentioned that it was more graceful than you.”

  “True.”

  “My guess is that your attacker made the mistake of thinking that it was you. You were close enough that your aura would have overlapped the natural bird.”

  The Changer nods. “I had considered that.”

  “I’ll hazard a guess that whoever attacked you had the bullet enchanted for accuracy—that way he didn’t need to worry about the wind.”

  “Can that be done?” Arthur asks.

  “It can, but it’s costly, like most amulet magic—doubly so if the material was iron. If it was silver, though…”

  Arthur walks over to a telephone. “Let me see if I can reach Eddie and Vera. If they haven’t left the spot yet, maybe they can pick up the bird’s body.”

  While Arthur makes the call, Lovern continues to muse aloud.

  “Whoever our enemies are, they have certainly expanded their options by using amulets. That may be their undoing as well.”

  “I’m more interested in knowing how they found both you and me,” the Changer says. “Are they watching this place?”

  “Probably,” Lovern says. “They can’t see inside—I’ve checked my wards—but we cannot counter what they do on the outside. I could scout for magic, but there are plenty of technological devices that would do the job just as well.”

  “Great.”

  Arthur comes and takes his seat. “I caught them just before they left. They took their time approaching the rifle in case it was a trap. They’ll do the same with the dead bird; then they’ll come back. So far, they haven’t had any trouble.”

  “Good.” The Changer yawns. “I hate to admit it, but the food and warmth has made me sleepy. I won’t be much help checking out the rifle. I should get some rest so that someone is fresh in the morning.”

  Arthur nods. “Not a bad idea. If anything crucial is learned, we’ll let you know.”

  The Changer rises, bends, picks up his daughter by the scruff of her neck and her toy in his other hand.

  “I’m sleeping outside, as usual. Coyotes hear all sorts of things that humans don’t. Lovern has warded this place, but whoever we face got that rattlesnake through his personal wards.”

  “Good point,” Arthur says.

  “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  The Changer walks outside, his daughter stirring sleepily in his grip. He tucks her into her burrow under the lilac bush, places the bone beside her, and strips to the skin. When he shifts into coyote form, the wind seems less a harsh taskmaster, more a vibrant messenger carrying news of the night’s doings.

  The stars above are bright; Orion and other old friends visible despite the city’s ambient glow and the light of the crescent moon. Standing on the teak table, the Changer studies them, wonders if someone studies him in return.

  Tilting back his head, he howls once defiantly, then again, mournfully, missing the answering chorus of his mate, his sons and daughters. The little one wakes, barks a sleepy echo.

  Half-asleep, he hears the car returning. He wonders what their enemies think of these efforts to discover who they are. In his mind’s ear he hears secret laughter.

  Back in his motel room, Sven Trout studies his reflection in the mirror and contemplates the prospect of reporting failure. When he is completely honest with himself (which is as rarely as he is with anyone else—being a firm believer in consistency in some things) he admits that he is rather intimidated by his peculiar allies. Louhi is too powerful for anyone to take lightly. Only the Head’s absolute lack of mobility has assured Sven of maintaining the upper hand in their encounters (when he considers it, his ally lacks hands as well).

  Sooner than he would like, if they achieve their goal, the Head will no longer be handicapped in any fashion. Will he still need Sven then? Sven hopes that, like his creator, the Head will prefer to rule from behind the scenes. If not, they could run into some rather serious conflicts of interest down the road.

  Sven shrugs away his worries. The way things are going now, he isn’t going to be able to get the Changer’s blood, and if he fails, then the Head will lack what he needs to metamorphose…

  Picking up the phone, he punches in the combination for the impossible connection and listens to the chime of silver and crystal. At the same time, he places a call to Louhi, but she doesn’t answer… bitch!

  “Felicitations, fire-born!”

  “Do you sit up nights thinking up those?”

  “In neither night nor night’s nether-reaches is this one permitted sleep’s surcease.”

  “Well, I guess you have to do something with all that spare time.” Sven clears his throat, suddenly a bit nervous. “I’ve called to let you know that both Merlin and Proteus escaped the traps I set for them today.”

  “Squared bones bouncing upon velvet, come up sixes oft as sevens.”

  “Yeah. You makes your throws, you takes your chances,” Sven agrees. “It’s nice that you see it that way. Still, I think that our larger plan is developing nicely.”

  “Coyote father forced from fastness, kings and courtiers cast into confusion. Soon the master of magicks must summon his scion to his side.”

  “Pity he won’t graft it back into place,” Sven mutters, “but that’s too much to hope for. How long do you figure it will be?”

  “Born of one’s blood, second’s sight, struck off, stored in a cistern, much I know, much I can only guess.”

  “Can’t you prompt Lovern to get you out of there?”

  “Breath I do not draw, thus breathless I await. Sorcerer’s son, sorcery’s scald, Bifrost stands in gold.”

  “I’m afraid don’t have any idea what you meant by that.”

  A deep sigh, perhaps with a hint of burbling about the edges. “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. As son of sorcery, of Merlin’s magic, his will twist I as smiths twist wrought iron.”

  Sven chuckles gleefully. “It really helps when you use the first person and cut out the kennings.”

  “Tough.”

  “I guess it was too much to hope for.” Sven leans back against his pillow. “What shall we do next?”

  “Arthur’s aides are assured in his aura. Unsettle their sureness in the potency of their protector.”

  Sven says, “I can do that. Eddie and Vera went out tonight, pretty confident that they could handle whatever we might try. I think you’re right. They need to learn some respect.”

  “Forget not Dionysus, Orpheus, insane singer whose persuasive powers we must employ.”

  “I haven’t. I’ve been going to his shows, dodging the bitch, and slipping him some ‘gifts.’ Rehabilitated or not, he has a hankering for hootch and hash.” Sven pauses. “Damn! Now you’ve got me doing it!”

  “Fates far more fearsome follow failure.”

  “I know. I’m being careful and running after my lackeys, too. You’ve got it easy just sitting there, let me tell you!”

  “You have done so.” There is a plosive sound, like bubbles blown in milk, that might be laughter.

  “I’ll going to ring off now, get some sleep. Let me know if you hear from Lovern and what he tells you.”

  “As always.”

  “Bye, then.”

&n
bsp; Sven hangs up the telephone and stretches. He tries to warm some leftover pizza and singes it just a bit. That’s always been his problem—going just a bit overboard. This time, though, this time, with Lovern’s sorcerous creation to aid and advise him, with Louhi to provide him with the magical tools he needs, this time he’ll get it right. It would be good to be the king.

  7

  A mouth that praises and a hand that kills.

  —Arab proverb

  To her consternation, Vera finds herself compelled by the Changer. The attraction is not sexual—at least she does not think so—but she finds herself watching him, seeking out his company, looking for excuses to talk with him. What she and Eddie retrieve from the vacant lot gives her such an excuse.

  She finds him, as is usual, in the courtyard of Arthur’s hacienda. Also, as is usual at these times, he is in the form of a coyote. He has explained that he does not wish his daughter to become too comfortable with humans, or to forget that she is a coyote, not a dog.

  “Changer?” Vera says, standing awkwardly in one of the entries into the courtyard. “I was wondering if we might chat.”

  The dog coyote wags his brush and trots into the room off the courtyard that the Changer uses as a closet. A few minutes later, the lean, dark-haired man emerges from the doorway. His eyes are no longer yellow-brown, but pure coyote yellow—a small enough change but one that emphasizes that he is not human. In his hands he carries a bottle of apple juice and bowl. A bag of puppy chow is tucked under his arm.

  “Good timing,” he says, by way of greeting. “About time to feed the little one.”

  “She’s growing fast,” Vera comments, watching the puppy bury her face in the food. “And prettier. She’s looking more and more like a coyote every day.”

  “I think she’s going to look a lot like her mother,” the Changer agrees, “and I always thought she was the prettiest little bitch I’d ever seen. Clever, too. A good hunter and a better mother. Our children went out into life well prepared.”

  “You miss her,” Vera says softly.

  “Five years is five years, no matter how long-lived the one living them,” the Changer says. “I’ve never been one of those who discovered that great age meant that the years raced by.”