Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “This is not helping me get a grip on religion.”

  “Drop by the Mother of Flame’s place tomorrow. Tianna can explain it—no, Tianna can show it—much better than I can. She can actually invoke one of the energy-state beings.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Probably safe.”

  “How probably?”

  “Safe-ish?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Speaking of thinking about it, what do you really think of the beard?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “You wanted my artificial tan and the face fur to disguise me.”

  “I did, yes,” she replied, smiling.

  “Are you sure I still need it?”

  “For now, yes. It’s easier to get rid of it in a hurry than it is to grow it, right?”

  “Well… yes.”

  “If you grow it out more, I’d like to run my fingers through it. I think you would look kingly and magnificent. The same goes for longer hair.”

  “I’ll make a confession. I don’t like it.”

  “No?” she asked, surprised. “Why not?”

  “It makes my face feel weird.”

  “Aww, poor Demon King,” she consoled, then changed the subject. “What are you enchanting?”

  So I explained about the sand table. Mary nodded.

  “Sounds like a project,” she observed.

  “Wait until you see it in action. I’m proud of it.”

  “I look forward to it. Go. Do. I’ll handle the door.”

  I went. I did.

  Saturday, January 31st

  I finished the basic workings of the sand table. It’s modestly functional, but still needs to be tied into the city’s main scryshield, like the scrying mirror. It won’t work beyond the shield unless it’s tuned correctly; the shield will stop it. After a couple of intense hours of enchantment, I’ve only got it functional, not tuned. It can still only look at places inside the city.

  Which reminded me to check the defenses of the palace area. There were some spells to defend against scrying, but nothing permanent. Even as I examined them, they were taking a beating, blocking multiple spells attempting to see in.

  Well, I should have expected something like this. What I needed was a quantum computer core. I could enchant it to block scrying attempts—or better yet, divert them into an illusion—whenever anyone tried to look into the palace area. There should be one already doing that with the city as a whole, but anyone already inside the city isn’t affected by it. I needed another one for the mountaintop palace.

  Then again, the computer core was running an active simulation. The illusion inside it kept altering, shifting, changing. The city in the crystal was an ever-changing thing, independent of the city itself. For the palace, did I need anything so complicated? Could I just copy the existing passages and rooms, subtract any signs of habitation, and leave it as a static image? That would be much simpler and, since it only had to store the image, rather than run a simulation, it could be done in any moderately-sized crystal.

  I have a few gems, mostly small ones, suitable for power storage. That’s a fairly straightforward thing. An illusion enchantment, even a static one, is much more complex. It requires something larger. Yes, size does matter. It’s not only size, of course; technique matters, too.

  Then I remembered my diamonds from nine years ago. I left some diamonds cooking in the chimney of Kavel’s forge. Were they still there? I could check without going into the undermountain. The forges were on a lower level; the chimneys led up through the palace. The four pagoda-like smokestacks on the upper slopes allowed venting for quite a few fires below the mountain’s surface. I put a request into a spell and fed it into the mountain. After a bit, the stone started to ripple, a slow, swallowing motion, drawing my diamonds through the wall.

  While they worked their way out, I went through the palace region, plotting out the route I would take while imprinting the gem. The trick was to get the most coverage with the least amount of backtracking. It took time to figure out, but it took time for the diamonds to ooze through the wall.

  They were giants, nearly the size of baseballs, and surprisingly heavy. Uncut, they did not have the clarity and sparkle one expects from diamonds, but they were perfect crystals. I put four of them away and took the fifth down to my workroom. Since I had a large reserve in my charging station, I put it into the gem as a foundation charge; the enchantment would use the energy as I built the illusory recording within the matrix.

  Free to wander about with my magic gem, I did so, imprinting the empty hallways and empty rooms in it. This took the rest of the night, but was well worth the time. Once I had it tied into a diversionary shield, the existing blocking spells were no longer a concern. When they went down, anyone who tried to look into the palace would find their scrying portal redirected to the interior of the gem—hopefully, seamlessly redirected, so they didn’t know they were looking into a complicated illusion. They were welcome to look around inside the illusory virtual reality all they wanted.

  Mary was pleased with her evening, as well. Six people came up over the course of the night, five of which she handled. She was well-fed and her language skills were immensely improved. We compared notes during our morning ritual and started speaking Rethvenese exclusively.

  “It’s strange,” she observed. “I know something I didn’t know. I can’t even describe how it feels.”

  “I know. I’ve got things I know which I don’t even know I know, you know?”

  “No, but you know I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Just wait until you pick up an unfamiliar instrument and play it.”

  “Can I?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “I have no idea. It depends on how many musicians you’ve eaten and how skilled they were. I haven’t got a formula for it, just some guesses.”

  “But that’s not information! That’s a physical skill. Those involve… other stuff. Brainstem nerves, muscle memory, that kind of thing.”

  “It still applies. It doesn’t work as well with physical things, I grant you. You still have to practice to be good at it.”

  “Find me some special operations guys,” she demanded, grinning. “Black Ops. Special Forces. Airborne Rangers. Those guys. I feel like learning something.”

  “Not today. But don’t be surprised if you can do things you didn’t know you could.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. So, what’s on the menu for today? I mean, what are your plans?”

  “I’m boring. I plan to sit quietly at home, enchant a table, a mirror, and a gem, and then start searching for my missing friends.”

  Mary made a thoughtful sound, tapping her lips with an index finger.

  “You know,” she told me, conversationally, “I think you’re right. You are boring. Sometimes.”

  “I apologize.”

  “It’s okay. In between boring, you’re overwhelmingly exciting. I guess it’s important to have the contrast. If you were exciting all the time, I’d get used to it. On the other hand, I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take the morning off?”

  “I have projects,” I pointed out, “but no actual deadlines, as such. What’s on your mind?” I asked. She ran her hand along the side of my face and kissed me, slowly, lingeringly.

  “You being exciting.”

  I did my best. Mary helped with the healing spell, too. She’s getting the hang of it.

  “Maybe we should do this in the evenings,” I suggested, as she pressed wounded flesh back together. I’m really glad she’s learning the spell.

  “I’m game. Why?”

  “After sunset, we regenerate. If you’re going to dig fingernails into me like a panicked wildcat, I won’t have to be shredded all day long.”

  “Good thought. Or I could file down my nails.”

  “And claw me up with blunt nails? How about you don’t claw me up at all?”

  “Evenings it is,” she replied, grinning, “if those are my opti
ons.”

  “Freak.”

  “Weirdo.”

  “My freak.”

  “My weirdo.”

  She finished with my back and I sat up, working arms and shoulders to check for pain. I ached a little, but only because Mary plays rough. I’d have bruises until nightfall. Those are actually harder to fix than a cut. Skin-level cuts can be welded closed with relatively little effort. Bruises involve minute adjustments to ruptured blood vessels over an area. It’s the difference between taping a torn piece of paper and repairing paper with thousands of pinpricks.

  “If you’re going to go be boring, now,” she said, “is there any objection to my going down to town and exploring? It’s a big city you’ve got and there’s a lot to explore.”

  “You haven’t seen the rest of the undermountain.”

  “Not yet. I hope there’s another way out besides the lower door and the Kingsway.”

  “I…” I paused, thinking. “I think there is. I remember feeling several, but I’m not too precise on where. I’ll ask again.”

  “Ask?”

  “Come on. I’ll show you, but it will be boring.”

  “I’m in a good mood. I’ll forgive you.”

  Mary watched the process as I reclined on the dragon throne and merged my consciousness with the mountain. I focused on the palace and ways from it, into the city. I found out what I wanted to know and speeded up again to a more human time frame.

  “Can I ask a favor?” she asked, watching me closely. I stretched, cracking and popping as my mortal flesh recovered from the spell.

  “Of course.”

  “Warn me before you do that again.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I never want to see it. It’s as creepy as an old man in a trenchcoat watching a preschool playground. For different reasons, obviously, but there’s something about watching you… do… that.” She shivered. “I don’t like it.”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed. I didn’t understand it, but we all have our little quirks. What could possibly be creepy about merging one’s consciousness with a living mountain? And I’m not being sarcastic or ironic; I mean it. It seems a mild-mannered, almost Milquetoast thing. But if Mary doesn’t want to watch, I can respect her wishes.

  “So, did you find another way out?” she asked.

  “Several. There are lots of tunnels and passages besides the public ones in the undercity. I think the best one for your purpose is this way.”

  We went to a spiral stair and wound our way down, our spell-born faerie lights dancing above our heads to light our way. Several such stairs descended through the undermountain and the city within. This one, though, stopped at a fairly high level. The pivot-door was disguised as the rear wall of a small apartment; the apartment itself was at the end of a dead-end hallway. It had a hole in it, up high to look like a ventilation hole, and a step to use for peering out.

  We extinguished our lights as we approached and Mary stepped up, peered out.

  “It’s a studio apartment,” she whispered. “Bed niche in the wall, a ledge for a small table, and enough room for a little furniture, not much else.”

  “Bachelor quarters,” I replied. “Small rooms, not fit for families. This is an inconvenient neighborhood, kind of a long walk from everything. Any residents should go to work for most of the day. Does it appear to be used?”

  “There’s no sign,” she stated.

  “Sounds good.”

  “It’s perfect.” She kissed me. “I’ll be back before dark.”

  “I hope so. If you’re not, I’ll have to look for you, too.”

  She peeped through the hole again, then pushed off the wall with one foot. The slab pivoted almost soundlessly; she stepped off and pushed it closed again.

  I put an alarm on my side of the door, just in case, and went upstairs to finish work on the sand table.

  I didn’t finish easily.

  My first order of business was to reestablish some charging stations. I now had huge diamonds; putting a heavy magical charge into them seemed a good idea. You never know when you’re going to need to blast a castle or hold off a pack of enraged wizards.

  I finished three power circles and was starting on my fourth when the Kingsway alert went off.

  Huh. Someone’s come to visit, I thought.

  Seems likely, Boss.

  Friend or foe?

  Bronze is inside. She’s in her stall, the room off to the side of the main door.

  The one with the coal seam the mountain keeps pushing out?

  That’s the one, Boss.

  I guess I have to go see, then. I really need to upgrade the alerts with some sort of visual.

  If you were better rested, you might have thought of it when you were building it— Firebrand said, but I slapped the hilt and it shut up. I was getting tired of being told to go take my nap, like a preschooler who doesn’t want to come in from the playground.

  By the time I reached the great hall, the visitor already had a hand in the hole and was waiting. I used my hand mirror for a brief scrying spell. Since I wasn’t trying to go through a barrier—the scryshield around my house encompassed the courtyard—it worked.

  A boy, maybe seven or eight years old, stood there and looked frightened. He kept shifting from foot to foot, but he kept his hand in the hole.

  Any idea what he wants? I asked Firebrand.

  He’s too scared to think about that, Boss. All I get is he’s determined to see you.

  That’s odd.

  People who don’t know you are terrified of you, Boss. That’s not odd.

  I was referring to his determination to see me. Most people don’t want to.

  In Rethven, maybe. Around here, most of them still think of you fondly.

  Now that is odd.

  I opened the door. The kid came with the door, apparently in a hurry. Technically, the instructions didn’t say anything about removing one’s hand when the door opened, so he did. I had to admire courage. Maybe it wasn’t courage as much as desperation, but he didn’t seem to be poor or starving. Then again, other things can drive someone to desperation.

  He was a skinny kid with dark hair, blue eyes, and needed a haircut. His clothes were simple and sturdy, patched in a couple of places, and he seemed reasonably clean. He looked at me with a clear gaze, obviously afraid, and stopped in front of me.

  With a gesture, I lit the four firepits in the great hall. Their light filled the place and reflected from the arched, golden ceiling. He stopped dead and stared at the place.

  “Welcome to the palace,” I told him. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded, wordlessly.

  “Come along, guest. I’m sure we can find something.”

  So we did. He kept looking around as though expecting monsters to crawl out of the shadows or follow us down the halls. Having lived like that for a few years, I know the look.

  Still, once I sat him down and put food in front of him, he ate. As he ate, he relaxed. I passed the time tossing squashed bits of bread into the air and catching them in my mouth.

  “Who are you?” he asked, finally.

  “Who are you?” I countered.

  “I’m Heydyl.”

  “Nice to meet you, Heydyl. I’m Halar.”

  I hope his reaction isn’t typical. He gulped, jumped off his stool, and might have hurt himself kowtowing.

  “I see you’ve heard the name,” I commented, dryly.

  “Yes, my King.”

  “Good, good. Now, get up, sit on that stool, and finish eating.”

  He got up, sat on the stool, and ate with ferocious concentration until he emptied the plate. I watched, wondering what he heard to make him act like that.

  “So,” I began, once he finished, “what brings you to my house?”

  “Are you my father, Your Majesty?”

  Well, that was unexpected.

  “Why do you ask?” I heard myself say.

  “Mom says you are and you’re here. Your Majesty.”


  “Okay, first off, drop the formalities. My name is Halar. Think you can use it?”

  “Yes, Your— Yes, Halar.”

  “Good. And you can ignore the bowing and kneeling and anything else, got it?”

  “Yes, Halar.”

  “Hmm. Still pretty formal, but we’ll work on it. Now, what did your mother tell you?”

  “She says you were here after the war against the evil Prince of Byrne, and that’s when you gave me to Mom, and I’m secretly a prince of Karvalen.”

  I silently acknowledged to myself his mother might be right. The Demon King got serious mileage out of my body while he was in the driver’s seat.

  “Well, I haven’t been here in a few years—since before you were born, actually. I can take a look at you and figure out if you’re my son or not, if you like. Then you’ll know for certain. Is that what you want?”

  He nodded, wordlessly.

  “All right. Follow me.” He did. We went up to my workshop.

  Of all the spells I know, all the magical knowledge I’ve digested from wizards and magicians both ancient and modern, there are more than a dozen different spells designed to detect a relationship between two people. Maternity is seldom in doubt; paternity always is, hence the several spells for determining it. Every last one of those spells is about as reliable as a coin flip. Oh, maybe it’s not as bad as all that, but they rely more on arcane connections between the spirits of the father and the child, some resonating effect between the soul of the father and the soul of the offspring.

  I tried them. They all indicated a negative result. Not surprising, since the “I” that did the fathering wasn’t the “me” being tested. Any other wizard or magician would have taken the across-the-board negative as proof.

  Which led to two things. First, I needed a genetic test, not a spiritual one. Second, if the kid was a product of my genetics, was he also a product of my darker spirit?

  Heydyl had to hold still for a while. I subjected him to every test I knew or could think of that didn’t involve hurting him, looking for traces of anything sinister or unnatural. I searched most thoroughly and found a boy, only a boy, bright and clean, with only those smudges on the soul that come from living in the world of men.