Changer (Athanor)

by Jane Lindskold

  Vera frowns, her gaze fixed on the plastic bottle in her hands. “There have been a few times that I thought so, but, no, I’ve never been in love in the way you love Duppy Jonah.”

  “Few,” Amphitrite says honestly, “love as we do. We have weathered our storms, learned that we are equals despite his great age and my relative—to him—youth. Still, I think there are shorter-lasting loves that are no less powerful: Eddie and Tin Hau, for example, or the many among us who have loved mortals despite the knowledge that they would die before us.”

  “I don’t know if I could stand that knowledge,” Vera admits. “There are legends from my birth land of goddesses who loved men and wished them immortality only to see them wither into grasshoppers or sleep forever.”

  “All the world has such legends,” Amphitrite responds. “Some told from the point of view of the mortal, some from the immortal. Scholars tell us that they are allegories for the risks taken by all who love. Remember, even in human unions, one partner will usually outlive the other. Even among our folk, accidents and battles end lives.”

  Remembering the litany that began the meeting, Vera nods. “Yes. I know. Why are you talking about this?”

  Amphitrite smiles, sits up, puts on a brassiere, then a silk tank top. “It is well-known that lovers delight in talking about love. I thought you might welcome the opportunity.”

  “Me!”

  “I have seen how you watch the Changer, how you find small reasons to seek him out. I thought that perhaps…”

  “No!”

  “I apologize, but I don’t think that I am wrong.”

  “I have kept an eye on him,” Vera says defensively. “He is a wild thing in this house. With the Review taking so many violent turns, I worried about such a potent, unallied presence.”

  “Wise of you, but then you are known for your wisdom.”

  Vera rises, obviously uncomfortable. “I’ll leave this bottle of moisturizer in the bathroom.”

  “Thank you for your help. I am much more comfortable.” Amphitrite stretches, then reaches for her panties and skirt. “I will consult with Lovern before I decide whether or not to take up the South Americans on their invitation.”

  “Good idea.”

  “See you at dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  Vera departs rapidly. Amphitrite laughs softly as she finishes dressing. There is time to call Duppy Jonah before she is needed. He will be terribly pleased to hear that his brother has an admirer.

  She wonders if the Changer would be as pleased.

  The Lustrum Review ends that evening with the grand ritual of the Harmony Dance. No one, not even the Changer or Lilith, recalls precisely when the Dance came into existence, nor has it remained the same over the unfolding of the millennia.

  It occurs once every five years at the conclusion of the Lustrum Review, and such is the artistry of its design that the number—or the humanity—of the dancers does not markedly affect the performance of its complex choreography.

  In some ways it resembles an English country dance, for the assembled dancers take places in two lines facing each other, but the line is not straight. Instead it curves like a lazy snake so that all but the outermost lines have at least one line in front of it and at least one in back.

  The music changes from era to era and according to the customs of the country in which the Review is meeting. This year the composition is indebted to fiddles, chimes, and a light percussion like very small hailstones striking a copper roof. There is also an undertone of thudding monotone drums.

  Needless to say, the entire Harmony Dance is greatly dependent on magic, but, appropriately enough, it is not the magic of any one individual. Rather, it is the magic created by the gathering of the athanor. The Dance signifies their desire to live in accord with each other, and it is not unknown for blood enemies to dance a measure or two with each other in the most supreme elegance and kindness.

  It is more than just a dance, however, for Harmony is the greater element that binds them all to each other, the force that rejuvenates them. Even those, like the Changer, who are not signatories to the Accord are within Harmony. To be outside of Harmony for an athanor is to be as good as dead.

  This year, as for some years past, immediately prior to the Harmony Dance those who wish to renew their oath of fealty to Arthur and Accord come before him in his office. The swearing is brief and dignified. King Arthur does not lord over his subjects, but rather accepts the responsibility that they are consigning to him. Even the South American contingent come to swear—and some of the weariness slides from Arthur’s features.

  As the athanor gather on a broad, clear section of the grounds outside of the hacienda (it cannot, in all fairness be called a lawn as there is no grass but only a covering of fine crushed gravel the color of old emeralds), a pale white mist rises from the ground and cloaks their activities from any who might by chance be out this early-summer evening.

  “Lovely,” Amphitrite comments to Jonathan Wong.

  “Lovern’s work, though I believe that Lilith, Louhi, Oswaldo, and several others have given their aid. Once the Dance begins it will be sustained by Harmony itself.”

  “I’ve never been to one of these,” the Sea Queen admits, “though we have our own Dancing beneath the oceans for those within Harmony who cannot come to land.”

  Jonathan Wong’s expression becomes wistful. “I have always wished to see how the Sea Dance is done.”

  “Come next year,” she invites him. “You would be welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a gentle tintinnabulation, the music begins. Everyone bows to their opposite, even the jackalopes who take care that their antlers do not scratch and the tengu who have, in this moment of privacy, assumed the shape of long-nosed Japanese monks with awkward-seeming wings.

  Then the fiddles strike up something light and cheering, a fast-moving tune that makes even the most solemn smile and those who had thought themselves tired discover new exuberance. The dancers side right and left with their opposites, turn to offer the same courtesy to those to either side, then the entire figure uncoils into something like a spiral, groups of four making a star with their right hands, then spinning out to join an entirely different set of four.

  Turning out of the second star, Amphitrite finds herself dancing opposite Vera. The grey-eyed girl has piled her black hair high on her head in the traditional style for Navajo women. She wears a dress of dark red velvet with buttons made from flattened coins the same color as her eyes.

  Vera smiles greeting and reaches out to take Amphitrite’s hands. Spinning around once, they reach out and grasp the hands of those on either side, Lilith and the Smith, as it turns out. Their four goes once quite around, like children playing ring-around-the-rosy, then joins hand with another four, making a circle of eight. Their circle of eight opens to encompass a circle of four, one of whom is a young coyote pup, prancing gaily with the rest.

  “That’s Shahrazad!” Vera exclaims in surprise, then she is whipped away to become the center of a circle made up of eight others. In the general company, it seems full right that a coyote should dance, and so Vera forgets to be surprised.

  Nor does the Changer, human-form for this event, make any comment. He bows to the pup when they pass in a form and she wags her bush with glee and picks up her paws most elegantly. Implications are things for the morrow.

  When the chimes blend with the fiddles, the Dancing becomes less expansive. Small sets are danced, sometimes in groups as small as two, sometimes alone. However, even in these sets, the Dance emphasizes the Harmony of the whole, the actions of the individual varying only slightly from those of the dancers in nearest proximity. Thus, although the motions of the dancers on the outermost rim bear no similarity to those in the center, a continuity can be perceived.

  Were one watching from above, one would see the exquisite balance of the dancers, each swirling in his or her own orbit, each, like stars in a spiral galaxy, each kept i
n place by the greater force of the whole.

  One does watch from above, by means of a magical mirror it has activated. Hanging by its hair, its skin tormented by the dryness of the air, Mimir’s Head watches the celebration of community it has been denied even as Harmony pulls it into temporary congruence with the whole.

  It weeps, but its tears are red as blood and its thoughts are filled not with a longing to be one with the group below, but with the longing to destroy it.

  15

  The head is always the dupe of the heart.

  —La Rochefoucauld

  The morning following the Harmony Dance, Sven Trout drives his latest rented car to the hotel where Louhi is staying. Boldly assuming his welcome, he goes directly up.

  Louhi answers the door clad only in a wrap of woven silk the silver-green of winter ice. The weave of the fabric is so fine that it clings to the roundness of her breasts and even to the hollow of her navel. Sven feels himself stiffen in admiration.

  “Good morning!”

  “I thought it must be you,” she says, not inviting him in but instead studying him thoughtfully.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asks with a leer.

  “Any time a man interrupts a lady is a bad time.” She sighs breathily, causing interesting corresponding motions in her breasts. “I suppose I must speak with you sooner or later. Come. You can wait in my parlor.”

  Not one of those who needs worry about money, Louhi has taken a suite. An unfolded newspaper and a plate with a few crumbs on it show how she has passed the morning.

  “Wait here,” she says, pointing to the sofa. “I will be with you anon.”

  She exits into the bedroom. There is the pointed sound of a door locking. Sven chuckles and picks up the newspaper. When the shower starts, his gaze becomes dreamy and he puts the paper aside. The trend of his thoughts can be read in his anatomy.

  When Louhi emerges from the bedroom, she is dressed in a midcalf-length broomstick skirt of light cream-colored cotton and a matching embroidered blouse. Her feet are bare, but around one ankle she wears a bracelet of pearls and jet. Her wrists are adorned with intricately carved bangles of cinnamon wood, and from her ears hang Venetian glass pendants.

  Sven is familiar enough with her magic to suspect that one or more of her pieces of jewelry are enchanted and puts aside certain fantasies, albeit regretfully.

  “I suppose you’ve come to ask about the blood that you gave me,” Louhi asks.

  “That I have, lovely one.”

  “There isn’t enough for my needs, nor can I work with it in such a dilute form.”

  “Damn.”

  “Did you attempt to get any other samples?”

  “I did. I didn’t have much luck. I couldn’t very well leave more glass in the bathroom…”

  “No.” Louhi’s sour expression shows how little she thought of that gimmick.

  “I couldn’t very well ask him to bleed into a jar!”

  “No.”

  “I set a trip line outside of his door, a thin filament that would break on contact.”

  “And?”

  “He never caught on it. That damn bitch…”

  Louhi arches an eyebrow.

  “The coyote puppy,” Sven clarifies, “broke it. The Changer didn’t take part in any of the pickup games the rough-and-tumble types organized, and, even if he had, I suspect he would have simply shapeshifted to heal any damage.”

  “True.” Louhi’s expression is unsympathetic. “So what are you going to do? You have promised the Head his body. I have done my part and designed the spell. You are the one who has thus far been found wanting.”

  “I’ve tried!”

  “We are not children here that such an excuse is acceptable. I managed brief contact with Mimir’s Head during the Review. He is delighted to be out of his prison, but his impatience grows.”

  “Tough. He’s going to keep waiting.”

  “And if Lovern returns him to the ocean’s keeping?”

  “He won’t. I plan to keep harrying the household. Harmony be damned! I don’t care if anyone gets killed if I can keep Lovern nervous.” Sven grins maliciously. “In any case, I don’t think that Duppy Jonah has forgiven him his trespass. Wherever the wizard next stows the Head, it won’t be underwater.”

  “Don’t you realize that the more of those games you play, the more chance there will be of your being taken?”

  “I have already made provisions against that.” Sven looks around the room. “Can I call room service for something? Breakfast was rather slim at the hacienda this morning.”

  “Certainly.”

  After placing his call, Sven continues, “Several tengu attended the Lustrum Review. A few I have been courting in my persona as Moderator; a few others came to support Katsuhiro Oba if his feud with Dakar Agadez flared.”

  “No luck there.”

  “Not for them, but for me. They were pretty bored and testy. One ‘Monk’—his Japanese name is a tongue twister—I had a pretty good read on from the chatroom. I didn’t let on that I was the Moderator, of course, but I did let on that I thought that the stuffy sorts could use some shaking up.”

  Louhi smiles. “And, since tengu are already inclined to think that way…”

  “Don’t overlook the artistry of my manipulation…”

  “He took to the idea.”

  “Precisely. Monk and his fellow tengu will be performing the trickster parts. If they are caught, their ‘confessions’ will lay the groundwork for September’s Event.”

  “Very nice. Meanwhile, you will be free to take on other tasks.”

  “Like getting the Changer’s blood.” Sven chews his lower lip. “I thought that we were going to get our vote of no confidence right at the Review, but Arthur calmed them down. He even had the South Americans eating out of his hand by the end.”

  “Too many of our people are too centered on their own needs,” Louhi says, fully aware of the irony of her words.

  “Yes. It’s probably good that the vote didn’t happen. There would be no reason for anyone to support me. In September, things will be different.”

  “They had better be,” Louhi says. “You’ve made some big promises.”

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Sven replies. “The Head will have his body. I will have my throne, and you will have the Changer’s attention. One big happy triumvirate.”

  “You sound so certain.”

  “Why not?”

  A knock announces the arrival of Sven’s meal. He goes to the door, but when he begins to sign the bill to the room Louhi clears her throat. He fishes out his wallet and pays the man in cash.

  “That was cheap of you,” he says, lifting the cover off of his plate of huevos rancheros.

  “I’ve extended you enough credit,” Louhi says. “Now I want some results.”

  The morning following the Harmony Dance, nearly all of the hacienda’s guests take their leave. After the last load is driven to the airport by Anson, the remaining residents gather in the courtyard for lunch.

  “I’m going to take the pup away from the city,” the Changer announces. “No purpose is being served by our remaining here.”

  Arthur and Eddie nod agreement. Lovern frowns. Perhaps only Amphitrite, sitting beside her at the teak table in the courtyard, notices Vera swallowing a protest.

  “Do you think it is wise?” Lovern asks. “I will be escorting Amphitrite on her South American tour. This leaves Arthur rather thinly protected.”

  “Arthur’s safety is not my business,” the Changer replies calmly. “As far as I can tell, he has not been threatened. You have, Eddie has, I have, but Arthur and Vera remain untouched.”

  “For now,” Lovern intimates darkly.

  “That is not my business. My daughter is. She is growing too large to live in a courtyard and far too unguarded with humans. I will not encourage behavior so counter to survival.”

  “We still don’t know who planned the attacks!” Lovern protests.

  �
�Nor do I see any evidence forthcoming,” the Changer says in a low growl. “Despite the trouble we took to bring that foul Head here, it has been little help to you.”

  “There are magics to guard against scrying.”

  “I know. I have often wished I possessed them.”

  “I’ll offer a trade—an antiscrying amulet against your remaining here a month longer.”

  “No. An amulet would not shift with me; therefore, it would be of limited use.”

  “But…”

  Arthur gestures regally with one hand. The gesture is slightly diminished in that he holds a sandwich.

  “Enough, Lovern. The Changer has bided with us over a month. He is right. We have eliminated possibilities, but we have not found a solution. I am of the opinion that the attacks were an attempt to unsettle this household before the Review.”

  “By whom?”

  “Perhaps the South American contingent. Our being unbalanced would have worked to their advantage as they made their appeals.”

  “But stooping to near murder?”

  “Such tactics have been used before. They will be again.”

  The others had listened in silence. Now Eddie cuts in, “Nothing has happened since the Review began. I agree with Arthur. Our enemy had set a time limit of the Review. Now that it is past, all should be well.”

  “Sycophant,” Lovern mutters.

  “Excuse me?” Eddie asks stiffly.

  “Nothing.”

  “If you are so worried,” Eddie says, his tone making quite clear he had heard, “why don’t you stay here?”

  “I must escort Lady Amphitrite to South America,” Lovern replies, “as well you know. The consequences of harm to her are such that I cannot leave her unguarded.”

  Amphitrite smiles prettily. “My husband is quite protective. I cannot answer for his temper.”

  “Can’t someone else go?” Eddie says, clearly enjoying toying with the wizard.

  “Who?”

  “How about Anson? He’s quite a world traveler. Has a few tricks up his sleeve, too.”

  “That’s what I fear,” Lovern says darkly.