by Garon Whited
“Don’t hold back,” I advised. “Tell me what you really think.”
“Sarcasm,” T’yl noted. “Yes, you seem to be yourself again.”
“I am. But go on about the other me.”
“The Demon King crushed all opposition to his conquest and unhesitatingly burned whole towns. While that, by itself, might have merely earned him a reputation as a ruthless conqueror, he had other habits.”
“Such as?”
“Once established in Carrillon, he sent out for women. He used them as amusements, which seems to be somewhat offensive to people in your kingdom.” He shrugged. “I do not see the problem, myself. He seldom killed them. Besides, there were any number of other things he could have been up to that would have been far worse.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask. Did he use them for dining or other things?”
“Both. You may find a number of dark-haired children in the capitol that bear you more than a passing resemblance.”
“Great,” I groaned, wincing. “I’m going to have a tough time with the whole image thing. Have you explained what happened?”
“I have. Tyma does not care. Ever since you—well, the other you. The Demon King.”
“Yeah.”
“Ever since you eviscerated her father and silenced her magical instruments, she has been most bitter.”
“I what?”
“You took offense to the way Minaren referenced your habits—”
“No, back up. Minaren’s dead? And has been for…?”
“Six years.”
“If Minaren’s dead, I can’t do anything about it. Okay. Unpleasant, but a fact. The instruments I might be able to do something about. What happened to them?”
“I am uncertain as to the exact mechanism, but they have not sounded a single note since Minaren’s performance of The Thirsty King.”
“I want to see them,” I decided. “There was a lot of effort involved in making those and Linnaeus gave up a piece of himself to make them sing. They’re important to me.”
“Tyma has them, I’m sure,” T’yl replied. “I can speak to the Queen, perhaps. Since you are no longer in the capitol, it may be possible for her to summon Tyma and obtain the instruments for examination.”
“Good. Now that we’ve handled that—those, at least, I might be able to fix—tell me about the thing I can’t fix.”
“Minaren’s death?”
“That would be the thing.”
“When he finally came to the palace to perform—not his idea, of course—you commanded him to sing the song you found so offensive. The Thirsty King mentioned a number of unsavory habits, but it was done well. I thought it was quite funny, in a mocking sort of way. The Demon King listened to the song in its entirety and tore Minaren’s guts out with his bare hands. It took Minaren quite a while to die, lying there while you sat on the throne and ordered the next business forward. That is when the instruments fell silent. They will not even produce sound when used in a mundane fashion.”
“No one helped Minaren as he was dying?”
“Your Majesty,” T’yl stated, formally, “you are the Demon King—rather, you are known as the Demon King of Karvalen. One does not simply do as one pleases in your presence. One asks leave of His Majesty. It was obvious no one was about to be granted leave to tend the dying man. Even asking might have been taken as a request to join Minaren.”
“I get it,” I gloomed. Dread Lord. Demon King. Whee. “So, Tyma started a smear campaign in the press?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She started getting snippy in her songs?”
“If I understand you correctly, yes. She keeps herself hidden, but has written a score or more of popular songs about you. She’s quite good at it.”
“She’s a descendant of Linnaeus,” I noted.
“It shows.”
“I would be surprised if it didn’t. But she’s out of hiding and doing well, now?”
“I believe she remains difficult to find, since she continues to speak out against you. Most people do not really seem to care, in my opinion. They accept the Demon King was a fact and are grateful he is no longer on the throne.”
“Do they know I was possessed by a demon?”
“Most of them have heard it, I believe. Yes.”
“Good enough.”
“Good enough?” he asked, surprised. “It’s your throne. They seem to not want you on it.”
“Lissette has it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m okay with it.”
“As you say,” he replied, uncomfortably.
“On to more important matters. Where is Tort?”
“Ah, that,” he said, and paused. I waited a decent amount of time.
“Where. Is. Tort?” I asked, trying not to glare.
“I know you do not wish to hear this—”
“Say it anyway.”
“—but I do not believe she survived your rescue.”
“Yep, you’re right. I didn’t want to hear it. T’yl, it doesn’t matter if I wanted to hear it or not. You’re wrong.”
“Sire?”
“Let me explain this in small words. I will not accept that she died for me. Got that?”
“I… yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Now, she’s around somewhere. I don’t know where she is, but I intend to find her.”
“If she is… that is, since she is alive, I think a broad campaign of hunting for her may be unwise.”
“Oh?”
“Since she is alive, as you say, then she has chosen to hide herself thoroughly. As the right hand of the Demon King, there are those who would gladly kill her for her part in his reign. While the farmer in his field may have little enough concern for the actions of the Demon King—what goes on in the Palace of Carrillon is the King’s business—I assure you, people with more power, while fewer, are much more concerned. And, might I add, offended, even vengeful. I suggest, Sire, since she has chosen not to contact anyone, she does not wish to be found.”
“Fair point. And yet, I am going to find her.”
“Your prerogative, Sire. There is also the matter of your safety.”
“Oh?”
“There are rumors of your return already. The Gate of Zirafel has shown activity, which is sufficient to raise suspicions in the circles of magicians.”
“They monitor the thing?”
“Of course,” T’yl replied, looking startled. “It is the Gate of Shadows. The Lord of Night returned through it a hundred years ago. What else might emerge? It is also in the City of Bones, the ruin of Zirafel, where the firmament itself was broken and the Things from the Outer Darkness entered. Did you think it would remain unwatched?”
“No, of course not,” I lied. “I was merely wondering if they mounted a constant watch on it, or if they checked on it regularly.”
“Ah. I think it is a constant watch.”
“Good to know,” I sighed, miserably. So much for being unnoticed.
“Moreover,” T’yl continued, “the Church of Light, as well as other churches, may already have confirmation from the entrails or other oracular processes. Who knows what their gods have told them? Whatever plans any of them may have made, they are doubtless hurrying them along or changing them to suit a more immediate timetable. Your safety—there, or here in Karvalen—may not be assured.”
“So?”
“So?” he echoed, surprised. “Is this not a matter of concern?”
“Not to me.”
“I do not understand.”
“No, you don’t. Not by half. I’m going to find her. If it means forty thousand screaming priests show up with flamethrowers and attitude, so be it. They can wait in the lobby while I work or be squashed into screaming meat sauce if they get persnickety. If, after all my efforts, I can’t find her, that’s fine; I’ll have tried my best. But I need to do that. And until I do, I don’t see how I’m going to care about much else. The only thing I’m hoping, right now, is I d
on’t have to crush a religion to have sufficient peace and quiet to find my Tort.”
T’yl gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret. His spirit didn’t show up well through a magic mirror, either, so I was kind of at a loss.
“Your Majesty,” he began, sincerely, “I am… unused to this sort of emotion. From you. Remember, please, I have been dealing with something else entirely which has spoken with your face. It is sometimes difficult to… reconcile my immediate feelings with the truth of who you really are.
“Of course you must find your Tort. I hope we can do so. But we must be cautious. The… forty thousand screaming priests? They will not be so kind as to wait while you finish.”
“Naturally. Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh. Tort means more to me than you know.”
“No, not at all. You were firm, and strong, without being harsh. Without the cruelty I have come to expect. It is I who must apologize, Your Majesty, for it is unjust of me to expect such from you—now.”
“Forget it,” I told him, ignoring the title. “Help me think of ways of searching for Tort. Preferably without revealing to anyone I’m looking for her, and without drawing attention to her.”
“I will,” he promised. “Is there anything you want done about the Church of Light and your kingdom?”
“I’d like to ignore the Church of Light as much as possible. And the kingdom seems to be doing fine all by itself.” Then a thought struck me. “Hey! Didn’t I jump through a gate to get away from these idiots?”
“Yes.”
“But the Church of Light wasn’t the only group on my tail. Wasn’t there some faction of the Wizards’ Guild, too?”
“Yes, but the Guild proper exists because of a Royal Charter. In theory, Thomen, as Guildmaster, derives his authority from the writ of the King.”
“I get that, sort of. But what about this faction?”
“There are political wizards, even as there are political magicians,” T’yl admitted, shrugging. “Some are more interested in gathering power over people than power over magic. In general, I find the ones with less talent for magic tend to try to have more power over people.”
“And these people didn’t annoy the Demon King?”
“If he could be bothered by them, I feel sure he would have killed them. He tended to kill anything he found annoying.”
“How did Lissette take that? And Thomen?”
“Lissette usually ruled while your other self… played? Occupied himself with his own projects. She minimized the damage—quite a number of your personal staff were dedicated to that purpose. Thomen seems to be less of a politician than he could be, but his close connection with the royal family goes a long way in helping him retain his position as Guildmaster.”
“I imagine it would. All right. Do you think it’s safe to drop into Karvalen? Or should we continue to hide out here?”
T’yl frowned his thoughtful frown, looking up and to the right.
“There is no such thing as a safe place,” he mused. “Zirafel is far away, which makes attacking you difficult, but any attack will be powerful if it reaches you there. Karvalen, on the other hand, allows for more opportunities to attack you, but most of them will be of lesser force. Those may be useful in identifying who is making such attempts.
“Still,” he continued, focusing on me again, “it would be best if your movements and location were less well-known.”
“I wasn’t aware we were sitting in the middle of a target.”
“It is not so bad as all that, but people do suspect where you are. It would be better if they suspected wrongly.”
“Fair enough. What’s your plan?”
“I do not have one, as yet, but I will see if I can uncover a way to smuggle you into your own mountain palace.”
“I can live with that,” I agreed. “Can I call you on that mirror, later?”
“No. It is a spell, not an enchantment, and will not last beyond this conversation.”
“Too bad. Message spell?”
“Actually,” he said, smiling, “I’m told you can speak to your daughter in the flames?”
“Yes.”
“If you would do so, she can relay a message to me. It will be less likely to be noticed. Message spells can be seen when they arrive, and I would not wish to have word of this reach the ears of Thomen. He is still Master of the Wizards’ Guild and still hates you.”
“For what I did to Tort?”
“Mostly, yes. He is also a reasonably good man and feels some responsibility for not being able to curb your more unpleasant habits.”
“Vengeance and guilt together,” I muttered. “Yeah, let’s keep this from him. Priests I can deal with. If the Guildmaster starts calling for group spells aimed at me, that could be troublesome.”
“As you say, Sire.”
“Another thing. When you opened the gate to send me away, were you aiming for the place I described before? The library with the carnivorous ivy?”
“What?” he asked, shocked. “Of course not! I knew you would need a place with people. While preparing for this, I referenced what information there was on gate travel in Arondel so I might avoid a daylight miscalculation. I also obtained a key from the old Hand gate in Telen to make sure I reached the place from whence you first came, rather than the place of ruins. Did I not find your world?”
“It was fine,” I told him. “I was a little concerned when I didn’t land somewhere immediately familiar.”
“I am relieved. Gates are tricky things. Even the Hand was cautious about opening them.”
“One more thing. What day is it? Inter-universal travel really screws with my calendar.”
T’yl told me; seven months had passed while I was on the other side. Not too bad a time differential, then. We exchanged farewells and he waved a hand over his mirror. The image swam away, leaving nothing, not even me.
Mary decided she wanted more language lessons. I was in the mood for something to think about.
“Translation spells seem to be really useful,” she pointed out, “but I can’t cast one, yet.”
“I’m sure we’ll find some people in Rethven—well, I guess it’s Karvalen, now—who need to pass on. You’ll pick up the local language in no time.”
“I’m sure I will, but it would probably help to have more hooks to hang it on.”
“You know, I don’t really know. Okay, we’ll try it.”
So we spent the rest of the night in my headspace, talking.
Friday, January 23rd
Karvalen/Rethven calendars are a little different from Earth calendars, but that’s close enough. “January” actually means something, instead of Leyonda. For my peace of mind and reduced confusion, I’m sticking with the calendar I know best.
Mary and I continued to practice phrases and vocabulary through the sunrise, with a brief break for a walkthrough of cleaning spells. I had her cast them while I guided her through, kind of like a gymnast working through a maneuver with her coach. She still has to do all her spells slowly, with much handwaving and clearly-spoken words, but she’s gaining confidence and competence. I remember a time, with Sasha, when I was doing about as well.
She’s also demonstrated a weak telekinetic trick with her daytime powers. She can slide a coin or something similar, but nothing that requires real force. Still, it implies the potential for much greater power as she gets older.
When we finished the spells we had a quick dip in the hot tub and cold plunge. Then it was time to enjoy a pleasant morning with an unusual selection of breakfast meats—fire-roasted dazhu and chicken are not normally breakfast foods—but it worked pretty well. We had breakfast and lounged in the warm pool.
“Do you think we could find something besides… well, meat?” Mary asked.
“I don’t know. It’s winter, so I doubt there are any berries or other fruits.” I shrugged. “I don’t really notice what I eat anymore, unless it’s particularly unpleasant. It’s mortal food, which makes it fuel.
”
“Yeah, but don’t you get tired of meat?”
“Ask me again in Rethvenesian.”
Mary made a growling noise and thought about it.
“Do you… not?… tired meat get?” she tried. “Of. Meat tired get of? Of meat tired get? Dammit, Rethven has screwball grammar,” she added, in English. She tried again. “Do you of meat not tired get?”
“Very good. It got the idea across.” We went over it again and she closed her eyes, repeating the correct phrasing silently to herself for a minute.
“Right. So, answer the question,” she ordered, in English.
“Yes, I suppose I do. I don’t care enough about finding anything else. It’s all going to be something that tastes bad, tastes strong, or disagrees with me in some way.”
“But… nutrition? Vitamins? Protein? Carbs? All that?”
“We regenerate at night. Everything resets by morning. I can’t suffer from malnutrition in a single day.”
“Huh.” She thought for a bit. “Could you make a spell—I don’t know how hard it is, so tell me if it’s a silly idea, okay? Could you make a spell to change the food’s flavor? Or one to… I don’t know… dial down your taste buds?”
She nudged me.
“Hey. Wake up. Answer the question.”
“Oh? Sorry. I just realized I’ve been stupid. Again.”
“How so?”
“Altering the flavor of food is problematic. It’s a complicated illusion spell of the mind-affecting sort. But I could put a perception filter on me to lower the gain…” I trailed off, thinking about it. It wouldn’t really be all that different from a pain-management spell, and I have more than one of those.
“I’m pleased you like the idea, but I’d still like something besides fried, grilled, or roasted carcass as options.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Speaking of options… about Tort.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve told me about her, but I get the feeling you haven’t told me everything about her.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
“The way you reacted, talking to Till.”
“T’yl.”
“Whatever. She’s important to you.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “She is. I did say so. I know I did.”
