Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  Watching her move around without so much as a click of metal on stone was eerie.

  Interestingly, her Ascension Hide spell was still going when I started to work. I was about to take it down when she tossed her head and did it herself. All the power it stored inside swirled away, sucked into her.

  I did not know she could do that. She seemed amused at my nonplussedness. A creature of many hidden talents, my steed. She gives me hope. It’s kind of like having a child who grows up to be brilliant, competent, and successful. I’m proud of her for what she is, which is a different thing entirely from being proud of myself for making her.

  Suitably attired and prepared, I set off the gate spell. The gate opened. Beyond, the canal gleamed and rippled in the moonlight. The opening was defined by the opening of the boat barn and the surface of the water, which made me wonder. If I opened a gateway underwater, would it come pouring through? I think it would, but that’s an experiment for another time.

  Bronze, Mary, and I hustled through immediately. The water was about four feet deep, as I thought; Mary didn’t even get her hair wet. Clomper, however, was not reassured. She sniffed at the edge of the water and whickered. For some reason, she didn’t want to step through a magical doorway into unknown waters in the middle of a dark winter night. Unreasonable animal.

  Bronze turned her head and speared Clomper with a one-eyed glance. Clomper decided to join us. As Clomper made waves in the cold water, I shut down the gate. The view into an old granary ripped apart, disintegrated into the darkness between worlds, and became nothing but an empty boat barn.

  Broad steps were carved—or, rather, grown—into the side of the canal, running along with the wall, recessed into it. This made it easier to get water from the canal and also served as a safety measure. The water level was about two feet lower than the lip of the canal where it ran past Mochara. Climbing out could be difficult for a grown man; anyone who couldn’t reach the edge would otherwise have to swim downstream to the mill at the outflow. Farther up the canal, that could be quite a trip, hence the periodic stairs in the canal walls.

  We slogged to the stairs and helped Clomper out—Mary pulled, I pushed, and Bronze made sure she cooperated. Bronze climbed delicately out without trouble. I dried us off and warmed up Clomper, reflecting how regular horses may sometimes be more trouble than they’re worth. Clomper already reminded me of all the reasons I stole an oversized fountain in the first place.

  Getting into Mochara itself was a separate problem. The city squared off against the canal on the east and the low cliffs to the south, but the outer wall was mostly a curve around the north and west. We were near the northeast corner with a view down the eastern and northern walls.

  There were a number of lesser gates in the stone wall along the eastern side of the city, where the canal acted as a moat. All of those were sealed up tight for the night; the doors were really drawbridges for crossing to the farmland beyond the canal. As I recalled, to the south there was one gate at the top of the low cliffs, leading to the sea. I could see the northern section of wall had one big gate, near the canal; a series of boat-pocket offshoots terminated at a roadway leading from it for handy loading and unloading. The western wall, however, had a gate specifically for the land traffic along the seaside road.

  We discussed it and decided on the western gate. Surely, they had protocols for how to handle travelers after dark.

  We circled northward, crossing the canal at an arching stone bridge. It was narrow, barely one haywagon wide, and probably meant for foot traffic. It was high and steep; barges and the horses pulling them had to travel underneath. It really needed to be longer and less steep to be a convenient bridge. Unless the steepness was there to discourage dazhu from crossing… then it needed something like those cattle-stopping lengths of pipe at either end—the ones they hate to walk on, not a gate. I’m sure the mountain could arrange it, but I doubt anyone thought to ask. Note to self.

  As we circled, I noticed another change. Mary hadn’t mentioned it, but since I already told her about the canals, I suppose she thought I was aware of it. There were two canals running north-south. The boat-pockets in front of the north gate were connecting ways. Was one canal for southbound traffic, the other for northbound, like a divided highway? Go down one canal, pull through the turnaround at the end, and go back? How much traffic did these things carry? I could see a dozen men still at work, even at night, pushing and pulling canal barges by the light of magical lanterns.

  We followed the road outside the wall, circling the city. Homes and barns and other such buildings were scattered through the region, visible by darksight and moonlight. It said something about the security of the kingdom that people were willing to live so close to the Eastrange without the protection of city walls.

  Then it hit me. Moonlight? Wait a minute… The sun disappears at night. It literally vanishes. So how does the moon shed light? Where I come from, the Moon reflects sunlight. Here, though, without a sun to reflect, the moon must, obviously, generate its own light!

  Silly extra-spatial visitor! How else would the moon glow? Doesn’t it glow in your world?

  Sometimes I hate this place. I mean I really, truly, hate it. It offends my narrow-minded and provincial sensibilities regarding good universe design. I should probably get over it. It’s hard, so very hard, to overcome all those years of growing up with my version of astronomy and space and celestial mechanics.

  I suddenly have a much greater respect for Copernicus and his heliocentric theory. He challenged the prevailing ideas of how the universe was put together. If I were to put forth the idea of the world going around the sun, people here would laugh at me, and they would be right to laugh at me. If I took someone back to my world, they might have just as much trouble with a round world and all the rest of it as I’m having with this. I know I’m not taking this well. My pleasant, comfortable, familiar ideas of how a universe should be put together are contradicted by this silly nonsense.

  There I go again. It’s not silly nonsense. It’s the truth. It’s how this place works. Badly, in my opinion, but I ought to learn to accept it, because it is the truth, rather than be resentful at how it doesn’t match my preconceived notions. I really should.

  Someday. That’s going to be one busy holiday.

  They kept the western gate of Mochara well-lit. Magical lights surrounded it with a soft glow, and a number of posts along the road supported glowing globes, lighting the coast road toward the mountains for a couple of miles. All of the sources were below the level of the wall, hanging down on the outside—a kindness for anyone trying to sleep? The top of the wall was in darkness. Was it to keep the night vision of the guards? To reduce their visibility from the well-lit ground?

  We approached along the road, in plain view. I suspended our Nothing To See Here spell, along with the generalized sound-damper. I left Bronze’s anti-clanging spells running, though, and the rest of our coloration stuff. Aside from Bronze’s size, I thought we appeared pretty mundane. We approached the gate. Two guards emerged onto the road from a small watch station beside the gate. Several more, atop the wall, sat up and took notice, but didn’t seem hostile. Interested, but not concerned.

  “Greetings,” one of the road-guards offered. We halted.

  “Salutations,” I replied. “Cold night?”

  “Agreed. Long journey?”

  “It’s a long walk through those mountains,” I replied, dodging the question.

  “So it is. See anything unusual?”

  “Not really, no.” I refrained from adding, at least, not for us.

  “Here on business?”

  “We’re here to visit the Temple of the Mother of Flame. Will we have to wait until morning?”

  “Oh. No, I don’t think so. Do you have money?”

  “Is there a gate tax?”

  “No, no—and I’m not asking for a bribe, either,” he chuckled. “Part of my job is to make sure anyone entering isn’t a vagabond. I can see from
your horses and clothes you’re not poor, but I’m required to see the color of your cash. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s fair, I guess.” I rummaged around and dug out the money we’d recovered from the amateur archaeologists. “Not a lot there,” I added, handing him the pouch, “but we also have some gems, a bit of jewelry, that sort of thing.”

  “Hey!” Mary protested. “The jewelry is mine!”

  “He’s not going to take it,” I answered, reasonably. “It’s just proof we can afford to pay for things. We’re not random riffraff.” I looked at the guard. “I’m right, aren’t I?

  He looked in the pouch, bounced it on his hand to weigh it, handed it back.

  “Quite so,” he agreed. “And the lady’s jewels are of no concern; you’ve more than proven your worth.” He tossed the pouch up to me and I put it back on my belt. He waved up at the top of the wall and there followed a clunking, clanking noise from within. “Names?”

  “I’m Vlad; this is Mary.”

  “Welcome to Mochara, Master Vlad and Mistress Mary.”

  We rode in at a walk and they shut the gates behind us.

  Mochara had changed. The streets were straight and paved; gutters lined them, with obvious drains into underground sewers. The place didn’t smell like an outhouse. Lines of magical light ran along the curbs, clearly marking the boundary between road and sidewalk—they have sidewalks!—as well as casting a gentle glow over where you might put your feet. Everything seemed cleaner, more orderly. The general layout reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite place it. A wheel, with spokes radiating from a center? Yes, sort of. I could almost recall a generalized city plan it seemed to follow. Was it an Italian thing? I might remember it if I looked down at it instead of walking along inside it. Maybe I’ll look it up in my mental library, later.

  Was all this change the effect of a tyrant king? Or good city planning and a helpful pet rock?

  Finding the Temple wasn’t hard. A few people were still abroad even at this hour, and the local constabulary kept regular patrols. We asked for directions and followed them.

  The temple had grown a bit. Sparky favored domes, apparently. It’s possible she was the guiding architectural inspiration for all the arcs and arches and domes in Zirafel, too. Her local temple was a smaller-scale version of the one in Zirafel. It didn’t cover as much ground, but the general architecture was the same.

  “Is the light inside from the goddess or from your daughter?” Mary asked, eyeing the doors.

  “I don’t know. Sometimes there isn’t much difference.”

  “I love these little talks. You always make me feel so much better.”

  “At least I don’t lie to you.”

  “Sometimes—in certain situations—I wish you would.”

  “Are you sure? I could, if you really want me to.”

  “No, on second thought, I’ll settle for brutal honesty. I’ve been lied to enough I know how much trouble it causes.”

  “As you wish.”

  “So, with that in mind, be honest. Is this going to sting?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s another temple. Holy ground. Remember?”

  “Ah. No, I don’t think it will be a problem—at least, not while you’re with me. If it is a problem, Amber can probably intervene.”

  “Okay. But if I ruin these boots because me feet catch fire, I’m going to be upset.”

  “Duly noted.”

  We dismounted. Bronze snorted to tell me she would keep an eye on Clomper. I pushed open the doors.

  The light was from Amber. She lounged on a central stage, like a central fireplace. This was surrounded by benches in eight concentric circles. The flames around her were magical. T’yl’s work? Or Tianna’s?

  “Dad!” she exclaimed, brightening in delight. “You made it.”

  “I did.” I moved forward to the central dais and she floated down from it. She held out her fiery arms to me and I hugged her without hesitation—she knew what she was doing, and the last time I touched her, she didn’t burn me. This time was no different. I felt her warmth, but nothing combusted. She was opaque, solid-seeming, but felt strangely soft, as though she had no bones. There was a firmness to her fiery flesh without any feeling of rigidity. I could probably have reached through her with only a little effort, but knew better than to test it.

  “I’m pleased to see you,” she breathed into my ear, “despite the fur on your face. Although it does look better now that it is properly trimmed.”

  “It’s starting to grow on me,” I replied. She winced. Dad jokes. I’m her father; I’m allowed. “How have you been?” She drifted back from the embrace with a glowing smile.

  “I am well, as always.”

  “You’ve met indirectly,” I continued, “but, Amber, this is Mary. Mary, this is Amber.”

  “Good evening to you, Amber of the Mother,” Mary said, in Rethven.

  “Good evening to you, Mary,” Amber replied. “I would offer you both refreshments…”

  “Don’t put yourself to any trouble,” I advised. “I know hospitality has its limits, no matter how you’re related. We’re not exactly the usual sort of guests.”

  “True. Please, be seated.”

  “Um,” Mary started, “I’d rather stand. My feet feel awfully warm.”

  I glanced at Amber. Amber wore a puzzled expression.

  “Holy ground and she’s a nightlady,” I pointed out. Amber frowned, brows drawing together in thought. Then her face cleared as she got the reference.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “Be blessed in your comings and goings, and be welcome in the House of Fire.”

  Mary visibly relaxed. She stomped her feet, paused to consider, and nodded.

  “You are supposed to say, ‘I come to this House to stand in the warmth of the Fire’,” Amber prompted. Mary dutifully recited the response and Amber beamed at her.

  We picked out a bench by the stage and parked ourselves—gingerly, in Mary’s case. Once settled on the bench, she relaxed. Amber half-hopped, half-floated back into her central fireplace.

  “Told you so,” I told her.

  “Sort of,” she admitted. Amber swung her gaze back and forth between us with an inquiring expression. I turned to her.

  “So, tell me what you know about Tort and T’yl,” I suggested.

  “Do you not wish to know about Zirafel and Karvalen?”

  “Yes, but I have my own priorities. Right now, I only want to deal with the mystery of the missing magicians. Have you heard from T’yl?”

  “Still no word.”

  “I don’t suppose you know where Tort is?”

  “I do not. I thought she might have gone with you through the gate, until you told me otherwise.”

  “So, Tort is still vanished and now T’yl has, too?”

  “I understand T’yl has been living in the palace of Karvalen—the one in the mountaintop. Now Tianna can no longer reach him, so I do not know what has become of him or of Tort.”

  “Any idea why T’yl has disappeared? Or where to? Or why?”

  “None at all.”

  “Damn.”

  I turned to Mary.

  “Are you following okay?”

  “I’m getting the gist of it,” she said, in English. “I think.”

  “Just checking.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” she added, “I’d like a translation spell if you’re going to be discussing significant stuff. I don’t want to miss details.”

  In answer, I cast the spell for her. I turned to Amber again.

  “All right. I’ve got nine years of demonic tyranny to understand. Hit me with the highlights.”

  “As you wish. However, let me point out I do not know all the details, myself. I was not a core member of the conspiracy. I was not much involved in the early days—the conquest of Rethven—either.”

  “See, that’s the kind of thing I need to know. What conspiracy? The conspiracy to overthrow the De
mon King and get me free?”

  “Give me a moment, please,” Amber requested, and settled herself, thinking.

  “In the beginning,” she told us, “it was Bronze. It is my understanding Bronze sought out Tort. Tort found a way to understand her, and the two of them shared the secret—the King of Karvalen was possessed by a demon. Or, not exactly a demon. A dark thing made of all that was terrible and evil within the King was in control. You were the King, yes, but it was originally believed that, somehow, all that was good and noble within you was destroyed.

  “For a long time, those two were the only ones who knew. Bronze remained hidden from you while Tort hid her knowledge. She did terrible things for her angel, Father.” Amber paused, the blue flames of her eyes flickering sadly. “Terrible things,” she repeated, softly. “You may find it difficult to forgive her.”

  “We’ll can those kippers when we come to them,” I told her. “Go on.”

  “I do not know the specifics, but she somehow recruited the Dragonsword into the conspiracy.”

  I do.

  “Okay, what happened?” I asked.

  She opened up a communications spell one day and said, basically, “Hey, did you know the Boss is possessed by a demon?” I told her I’d figured it out, but so what? We were in the field, hacking apart people who wanted to argue about who was king. I told her as much and we discussed it. Don’t get me wrong; I was all for having you back on the hilt, Boss. At the time, though, your dark side was doing a good job of being a ruthless conqueror.

  “You were enjoying yourself.”

  Well… yeah. But I was also willing to help Tort.

  Trade-offs. Powerful sword, but with an almost complete lack of conscience. It’s what I get for trying my hand at dragon-slaying, I suppose.

  “Fine. What did she want you to do?”

  Keep my teeth together, mostly. Poke around and see if I could find you in there—Bronze said you were in there, so Tort wanted me to look. That sort of thing.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  Your dark side has a lot of imagination and all of it nasty, Boss.

  This, coming from a former dragon.