“Please excuse me,” he says, “but I believe I will be off to bed. I expect that I will need to rise early.”
All but Anson, who is taking the first night shift, agree that they, too, should be getting some rest.
Anson waves to them as they troop up the stairs. “I’ll tell Vera all about our expected guests when she comes back,” he promises. “All of you rest easy. Tomorrow will be another day and a hell of a day at that.”
The meeting the next day begins late and ends later, extending through the dinner hour and necessitating canceling the planned outing to the State Fair.
No one minds. Indeed, problems are being hashed out. The theriomorphs realize for the first time that what they want differs within their own group. Even those like Rebecca Trapper, who had advocated a full, public introduction into society, are forced to confront the truth that the world might not be ready for them.
But she and her cohorts are unwilling to abandon their dreams. The memory of the night before, when they had blended so successfully with the normal humans in the Pyramid Club, is as intoxicating as strong drink, teasing and enticing them.
“Would you be willing,” Arthur offers, late in the night, “to develop a compromise? Up to this point we have helped the theriomorphs obtain legal identities within the human societies of their various countries of residence. Would you be willing to take this a step further and begin your entry into human society clad in an illusion that makes you appear to be human?”
Rebecca, who has found herself the speaker for her contingent in the absence of the Moderator, rises. “I cannot speak for the rest, Your Majesty, not without further discussion, but your offer has its positive points. Can you explain how the illusions would be created and how we would maintain them?”
“And how much they would cost,” says one of the pooka, who recalls the days when athanor paid high sums for magical communication or similar services that technology now performs.
“An illusion,” protests Snowbird the yeti, “would only serve part of our needs—the need to blend in without being seen, but it would merely be a stopgap. It might even cause more troubles than it solves. We live in relative secrecy now, but what would happen if humans thought of us as like themselves?”
His wife, Swansdown, adds, “I don’t want to deal with authorities trying to take Dawn or the other young ones off to school. If we were recognized as yeti, our place on the fringes of their society would be understood.”
Lil Prima interjects, “But you are saying, are you not, that you wish to be part of the human society for those things that would benefit you? Why shouldn’t they regulate how your children are educated?”
“We live centuries longer than humans,” Demetrios protests. “Our educational needs are not their needs!”
Like a judge gaveling for silence, Rebecca pounds on the seat of her chair with one massive fist. She gives Arthur, who has been watching the argument with a bemused expression, a smile that is partially apologetic, partially embarrassed.
“Shall we,” she says, once silence is restored, “let Arthur explain to us how these illusions would be achieved…”
“And how they would be paid for?” repeats Padraig O’Faolain, the pooka.
“And how they would be paid for,” Rebecca agrees, “before we accept or reject them out of hand?”
There is no further protest, and Rebecca turns wearily to Arthur, “Your Majesty?”
The King smiles thanks. “Actually, I wish to let Lovern, who is known to many of you, explain how the procedure would be handled magically. Then Eddie has some comments about how the illusion would be correlated with your current identities.”
Padraig shuffles irritably in his chair. His shape keeps migrating between that of a wild-eyed, scruffy-maned black pony and an impish boy. Arthur glances at him and smiles soothingly, “And then, as Padraig O’Faolain has requested, we will deal with the question of expense. Let me say at this time that any figures would be broad estimates. We had not seen the need to develop this program until yesterday’s meeting.”
The theriomorphs settle into their chairs, ready to take notes, prepared to frame protests, certain, at least, that they will get their say.
None of them realize the secret fears harbored by the wizard who so nonchalantly brushes his hand through his silvery beard, the apprehensions that keep the King and his intimates glancing toward the windows and jumping to answer any phone call.
Even as they work toward a modification of their working Accord, those who would shatter that Accord and perhaps even the Harmony on which it stands are preparing for their own entrance into the meeting.
The next morning, Monk is particularly edgy as he and Hiero gather their associates into the vans that will take them to Pendragon Estates.
“Brighten up, tengu!” Swansdown says kindly as she settles her children into their seatbelts. “Arthur has promised that tonight’s meeting will not go as late.”
“We’re going to the Fair,” Dawn says happily. “I’m going to see a baby lamb.”
Monk manages a smile and a quip that makes the young yetis giggle, but his inner tension does not fade. Today, if he keeps his promise, Sven Trout will join them. If he does not, tomorrow Monk must decide whether to reveal who the Moderator is (and risk undermining everything) or keep his silence.
The latter option is only superficially agreeable. If Sven comes to believe that Monk will remain biddable, then he may continue to play his games from a distance. The extension of his uncomfortably responsible role doesn’t please Monk at all; nor does the realization that he and his fellow tengu would be alone in their brooding concern about what the Fiery One intends next.
No, if Sven does not appear today, then at the first stroke of midnight, Monk will call Arthur and tell him what he knows. He can handle the King’s certain displeasure; maybe he can even imply that Sven forced the tengu into doing his bidding.
Yes… he could turn that little incident with the prank phone calls to their advantage if he works it just right.
Looking around, a more relaxed smile on his face, Monk sees that everyone is aboard except for Rebecca and Bronson Trapper.
The two sasquatches are standing at the main entry to the hotel. Rebecca is in animated conversation with two human males. He thinks, from Hiero’s description, that they may be the same two she had been talking with in the bar the night before last.
“Hey,” he calls. “We’re ready to go.”
“Sorry!” Rebecca calls back.
She makes another quick comment to the young men, then, when Bronson takes her arm, hurries to the van.
“See you tonight, Rob!” the darker-skinned of the men calls after. “Have a great day!”
“Bye!” Rebecca answers, waving before she bundles into the van. She looks around and realizes everyone is looking at her. “They wanted to know if we’d seen the Fair yet. Chris is a local. He said he’d be glad to show us around. I told him we hoped to get there about six.”
Monk swallows a protest. This is what they had all wanted, a chance to mingle with the natives on their own terms. He can hardly deny them. He’d only be opening himself up to accusations that because he can shapeshift, he doesn’t really sympathize.
He wonders if he does sympathize. Then he guns the engine and leads the caravan over to yet another day of argument. And maybe a little more.
By the third day of the meeting, the group has grown so large that Eddie and the Smith take down the semipermanent wall dividing the two largest conference rooms in order to accommodate the numbers. The theriomorphs are still commuting from their hotel, but the guest rooms at the hacienda are rapidly filling.
The hum of conversation is constant, except during the meetings themselves. Unlike the Lustrum Review, there is no routine business. Everything focuses on the linked issues of the theriomorphs’ desire to move from the fringes of human society and what this might mean for the athanor as a whole.
Still, when the athanor break for l
unch, the overall mood is optimistic. Now only the most wildly idealistic of the theriomorphs believe that a sudden revelation is a good idea. The plan that is slowly gaining favor blends the use of illusion and a gradual education-and-awareness program to prepare the humans for a revelation some fifty or so years hence.
As the afternoon meeting is opening and Eddie has finished reading a summary of the morning’s business, the double doors at the back of the room dramatically blow open.
“And why,” says Sven Trout, projecting his voice so that it fills the entire room, “should anyone wait fifty years? I say we should tell them now!”
He strides down the central aisle, clad in a green robe similar to those worn by the sasquatch and yeti. Behind him, also clad in robes, though these are almost painfully blue-white, are Louhi Maki and a man no one but Lovern has ever seen before.
The Head walks with a hitch to his step, but his gait is confident nonetheless. He looks deeply into the faces of those seated at the curved table in the front of the room, and Arthur and his allies must fight down a deep, visceral fear.
Human legends hold the memory of when black sorcerers walked the Earth. The athanor had slain them long ago, leaving only those who practiced in shades of grey like Louhi, Lil, and Lovern.
The roomful of people had fallen silent at Sven’s grand entrance, but now murmurs of shock, surprise, and indignation rise. Sven shouts his next words loudly enough to dominate all the other voices so that the silence seems to have fallen again.
“Why should we let humans dictate our actions? We are their seniors. We could be their masters—their guardians—their guides. Now they flounder, lost and lonely in a universe their science has stripped of magic and wonder. They search for God and know that, if he is not dead, he is no longer the thundering Jehovah they once worshiped, trusted, adored, and feared.
“I say that Arthur has led us wrongly. The time for caution is gone. The time for action is now! Why should we blindly follow a hidebound administrator—a man without imagination or depth, a man whose closest advisors are a sycophant and a corrupt slaver who abuses the very system he claims to uphold?”
Eddie’s face darkens with anger, knowing well enough who is being called “sycophant.” He rises, balling his fists, arms, and shoulders: muscles strengthened by his reliance on his crutches and daily workouts threatening to rip the sleeves of his short-sleeved sport shirt.
“Sven! What grounds do you have for coming here and making such inflammatory statements?”
“The same as those whose robes I sent to them.” Sven turns and looks out over the gathering, smiles at a horrified Rebecca Trapper, who is just now realizing who he must be. “I am the one who has summoned them. I am here to make certain that they do not forget their purpose beneath your lulling words.”
“You are the Moderator?” Rebecca asks, her normally bell-like voice cracking.
“I am the Moderator,” Sven says, “and lest my old rivals frighten you, let me remind you that I am here as an advocate of moderation. What else am I calling for if not a moderation of the policies that have dominated the Harmony for too long?”
The Smith rises. “How about rebellion? Chaos? Destruction?”
Sven faces him. “I thought you would understand me, Smith. You work with fire. Without fire, metal must be sifted from dirt. The finest crafting comes only when the metal is softened by fire. I am here to soften the ore of the Harmony so that it may be reworked into a new shape.”
“I admire your metaphor,” the Smith says, “but I cannot say I trust you any more than I trust the coals in my forge not to burn my smithy to the ground.”
“There is so much I must say,” Sven says, his expression open, appealing, warm. “So many things I must tell you all, but I know that I am on shaky ground here. Therefore, first I must ask for the protection of this gathering.”
He is so busy appealing to the group that he does not notice Duppy Jonah departing from his seat at the back of the room. The Head notices, but knowing that Duppy Jonah has himself grown restive at Arthur’s rule, he does not comment. Whatever Louhi thinks is muted beneath the cushion of love that binds her will.
Arthur stands. When he speaks, his words are chosen with a respect only partially feigned. Sven remains a master of manipulation. The Fiery One has supplied himself with allies and with an admirable cause that cannot be easily dismissed. Yet Arthur permits himself to hope that, as in the past, Sven has somewhere laid the grounds for his own defeat.
“I am amused,” the King says, “that you should appeal for protection to those very hidebound forces that you claim need ‘softening.’ Yet, I am willing to grant you the protection of this gathering. You may speak within the house. You may even claim rooms here for yourself and your allies. For now…”
He pauses so that those listening will perceive the implied threat, “For now, you are still within Harmony and protected by our common Accord.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Sven replies promptly, “though let me remind the younger ones that, for all you imply that they are of your making, rather than of your use, neither Harmony, nor Accord originated in you or your administration.”
“No,” Arthur agrees, “we have merely upheld them. Do you plan to do the same?”
“Of course not!” Sven says cheerfully, allowing horrified murmuring to fill the hall. “How can I advocate change and promise to uphold the Accord in one breath? I’m no politician…”
A wave of nervous laughter interrupts him, disconcerting him temporarily. He quickly adapts his speech: “I am no politician to make impossible promises. My goal is change but not, for all the good Smith has said, the change of Chaos. My change is that of amendment, not destruction.”
“Fire,” comes the rich, laughing voice of Anson A. Kridd, “usually destroys as it changes. We will remember that, eh?”
“Do,” Sven answers, “as long as you remember that fire in a forest may destroy disease, weak undergrowth, and saplings that could not have lived in any case. Fire in a hearth destroys old wood in exchange for heat and light. Fire’s destruction often clears the way for things we might prefer.”
Jonathan Wong raises his hand and, when he is acknowledged, bows first to Arthur, then to Sven.
“I would like to request that this meeting continue without such a wealth of metaphors. When you entered, you made several accusations that need answering. I am certain that Eddie would be willing to overlook as mere literary license your calling him a sycophant…”
Eddie growls something inarticulate, but nods stiffly.
“However, you have stated that one among us is a”—he glances at his notes to confirm the wording—“‘a corrupt slaver who abuses the very system he claims to uphold.’”
None of Sven’s aplomb deserts him, although he had wished to lead up to this issue in his own time. Lovern, seated on the dais in the front of the room, keeps his expression neutral, but his gaze is fixed on the Head.
Sven gestures theatrically. “Very well, Jonathan. You wish me to be blunt, blunt I shall be, though it is against my very nature.”
“Don’t we know that,” grumbles Katsuhiro Oba, who had hurried to New Mexico in hope of a fight and has found himself immured in the type of debate he despises.
Sven steels his gaze and fixes it on Lovern. The wizard refuses to quail, even smiles a touch ruefully.
“The slave keeper sits before us, at the King’s left hand. And his slave stands behind me, freed at last from the bondage in which he has been kept since the days of Ragnarokk!”
The Head walks unsteadily forward until he stands directly in front of Lovern. Then he turns and stares proudly out over the assembled throng.
“Born of sorcerous spell,” he says, “and Odin’s eye, I grew into life upon Mimir’s shoulder. When war was near won, he slashed me free and set me in solitude in the seal’s bath, beneath the whale’s road. In darkness and despair resided I there, but though my master deemed me a wise worker in spellcraft and safe st
ore for legend lore, never did he acknowledge that I was as his son and as much a member of Harmony as any here.”
Louhi has cut the Head’s hair and trimmed his beard in a style similar to Lovern’s own. The facial features, no longer gaunt and pale, no longer distorted by the ichor in which they had been stored, hint at the kinship. Moreover, those who remember Odin see that likeness as well, especially in the brown eye set beside one of coyote yellow.
“Cast what spells you wish,” Sven says cheerfully. “Seek to unmask illusion or trickery. Use a truthstone to test the Head’s words if you wish. You will find that there is no deception here. What the Head tells you is the truth.”
“Or,” says Jonathan Wong, “what he believes to be true. You and Louhi could have created him yourself and given him a false history he believes. I would hear Lovern testify to the truth or falsehood of this case.”
Only Arthur’s belief that Jonathan Wong is acting as an impartial judge, as a free member of the Harmony, keeps him from feeling that this trusted counselor has betrayed him. Lovern must feel the same, for he rises without hesitation.
“I will answer you, Jonathan. I did create the Head, in much the fashion that he has told. I did store it, much as he has said, although for his safety rather than out of malice or fear.”
Murmurs rise from the assembled group.
“What he does not say, I will,” Lovern continues. “Until a few days ago, it never occurred to me that the Head was in any way a person, nor did he attempt to inform me of such. Therefore, I thought him only a creation of my magic with no more volition than is held by a truthstone or ward. That, Jonathan, is my answer to these charges. I hold I was not a slaver, for I never knew I kept a slave.”
Lovern sinks back into his chair. Jonathan’s polite “Thank you” is drowned out by the rising tumult. Arthur makes no attempt to still the rising argument. He turns to Eddie, smiles a smile both wry and rueful.
Changer (Athanor) Page 49
