I snorted back. “Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?” I asked, sarcastically. “I want to have a word with them.”
“‘We’ are the ‘we’, you idiot!” the monk exploded, angrily. “Haven’t you realized that, by now? As much as you lot like to give my lot credit for your fates, we are just as bound by them as you are! We’re just expressions of your own powerlessness in the face of fortune, made carnate by a quirk of quantum physics, bizarre geology and an anomalous astronomical relationship! We have no more control than you lot give us, and thanks to your collective neurosis that’s not a fucking lot! We, together, gods and men – and Alka Alon, the Vundel, all of us – influence the outcome of events,” he continued, more calmly. “In the face of forces that we cannot control. That cannot be controlled.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because it beats curling up in the fetal position and waiting for the rest of the universe to just happen to you, as tempting a plan as that might be,” Herus shot back, sharply. “That’s part of the human condition, too, fortunately. Or unfortunately. The unrelenting attempt to exert even the tiniest control over the rest of the universe. By magic, by action, by prayer, by sheer desperation, you lot just don’t know how not to try to survive. To control your own fates.”
“Even when we know it’s futile?”
“Thankfully, you’re kind of stupid, too,” Herus sighed. “But it’s not – entirely – futile. Within the warp and woof of our collective actions, both human and divine, we weave the fabric of our reality. None of us enjoys any real control. Not even we gods. All of us control a tiny portion. Whether we’re aware of it or not, king or peasant, celestial god or rustic divinity, we all control – and contribute – to the way its woven.”
“Your argument isn’t particularly convincing,” I pointed out.
“It’s the one I have,” he pleaded. “And if it wasn’t for your own self-indulgent, egotistical fits of guilt and shame, you might appreciate its merits more.”
I studied the fire and considered his words. “What’s chasing me?” I finally asked. I figured if anyone would have insight on that, it would be a god.
“Your own fear of inadequacy, most likely,” Herus answered, after a moment’s reflection. “I think that what really pisses you off about the Aronin influencing you wasn’t that he did it without your consent, or without a right to do it. I think that you’re more concerned with the idea that without his help, you’d be a coward hiding out in Vore, spending the rest of your life listening to the increasingly horrific tales from the West and realizing how lucky you were.”
“So, what if I was?” I asked, defiantly.
“That’s your burden to bear,” he shrugged. “I just walk here.”
I mulled over the truth of his words, which involved far more soul-searching than I was used to. I’m not generally an introspective man, in my estimation. I tended to act more than think. When I thought about things, I was inclined to brood, and while I’m excellent at the art of brooding I usually gave up and did something, frustrated at my inability to figure something out.
But what if Herus was correct? Was I just scared that I wasn’t the man I thought I was, because I’d received some coercive help along the way?
For no particular reason, I remembered the first time Dad threw me in the river, to teach me how to swim when I was six, at the river goddess’ festival that summer.
It was a minute of existential hell to realize I was drowning. But once my desperation and determination to live gave me the ambition, I learned to swim very quickly. I remember getting out of the water, feeling betrayed by my father for nearly killing me like that. A week later I was sporting and playing in water over my head, joyful in the ability. I’ve enjoyed swimming ever since.
Was I right to be resentful of my father for giving me the “help” at the time? Perhaps, I reasoned. But as sadistic as it had felt then, the importance of that bit of treachery allowed me to swim away from a sinking dinghy in Farise, among other adventures. In his way, Dad had taken control over my life . . . to my everlasting benefit.
Was I, therefore, right to be resentful of the Aronin for doing essentially the same thing?
Since our conversation in his forest enclave, I had not only survived against unimaginable odds, I had started a family, raised my station, and improved the lives of millions, thanks to the changes I’d forced in the way magic was administered in the kingdom. And I’d saved the lives of millions more by my efforts against the dark forces in the west.
Without the Aronin’s help, there was no doubt in my mind that I would have failed. Hells, without his help I would have become Sheruel’s compliant tool before he even arrived at Boval Vale. Much less rescued myself, Alya, our unborn child, and four thousand other folks who were more or less happy with the outcome.
Did I really have a right to bitch that he didn’t ask permission before he gave me exactly what I asked for . . . and a bonus of enthusiastic optimism, however woefully misplaced?
I finally decided that it didn’t matter if I’d consented to his manipulations or not – they’d happened. Events had unfolded as a consequence, both good and bad. Reviewed objectively, without the context of my hurt feelings and guilt, his action was only one of a thousand things that had contributed to what had come to be. It was neither more nor less important than any other of them, I finally realized.
Herus was right. If I’d calmly accepted conscription into His Grace’s Magical Corps, all those years ago, because I didn’t have much choice, then I’d also calmly accepted conscription into the Aronin’s plans to try to defend his charge against the danger of misuse. In the same position, I decided, I would likely have done something similar, without regard to the free will of whomever was involved.
Something similar, or worse.
“All right,” I finally sighed. “Fine. I concede I’m sulking, afraid of my own inadequacies. I concede that I need to pull myself together and face the consequences of what I’ve done, without the luxury of blaming a scheming Alkan for my troubles. What do I have to do to get back to consciousness?”
Herus smiled, relieved. “Just follow me,” he advised. “I know the way. I always do.”
Chapter Fifty
The Tower Of Refuge
I eventually awoke. I usually do.
It was in a strange bed, under a strange roof, and I was dressed in strange clothing – a simple cotton robe. It was mid-morning when my eyes and my brain finally starting speaking to each other again. Piece by piece I assembled my murky memories, until I came to my dreamscape. The Magolith was floating quietly over my head of its own accord.
“And . . . you’re awake,” Lilastien pronounced, from nearby. “Again. Is it going to take this time, I wonder? The last time you were conscious, this morning, for an entire five minutes. Then you collapsed on the chamberpot,” she added, amused. She didn’t seem particularly excited about my consciousness, which I found a relief.
She spent a few moments conducting an examination – shining a magelight into my eyes, feeling my pulse, ascertaining my blood pressure and temperature, all without a medical baculus. She finally sat back straightened her white coat, and smiled.
“You seem to be fit, physically,” she informed me. “No serious wounds, no permanent damage from the battle. Congratulations.” Then she frowned. “Your mental state might be another matter,” she cautioned.
“Isn’t it always?” I quipped.
“What do you remember?” she asked, after smiling at my joke.
So, I told her. Everything I could, up to my final collapse next to Korbal’s big, stinking body.
“That’s it,” I shrugged. “After that, it was just tortured dreams, until Herus pulled me out. Your doing?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“He’s the messenger of the gods,” she pointed out. “I imposed upon him to bear you a message.”
“That’s a pretty tricky interpretation of his divinity,” I considered.
“That’s what
he said,” she smirked. “It worked, didn’t it? I stand by my techniques.”
“So, what happened next?” I asked, both eager for and dreading the news.
“Once the Ways were restored, and you contacted Pentandra, she sent in a rescue operation. Azar, Wenek, Onranion, and some of the reserves went, and a good thing, too. Nemovorti began showing up. They had to fight their way out, but they got everyone,” she said, proudly.
“Did they slay Korbal? Or Sheruel?”
“Alas, they didn’t have the time. You were the priority,” she admitted. “But I wouldn’t consider that a failure. I was there,” she reminded me. “I saw what happened. If Sire Cei’s hammer couldn’t crack that thing, and the kind of magic you were throwing at him didn’t kill him, it’s going to take . . . more. Something else. Consigning him to that mortal body is a start,” she conceded. “It gives us some hope. Especially if he’s wielding Sheruel like a warwand,” she added, darkly. “Thank goodness you stopped him, before he could unleash the full capacities of that horror!”
I looked up. “Where are we, exactly?”
“The Tower of Refuge,” she answered. “They pulled us through the Ways to Timberwatch, and got us stabilized there. I had them bring the worst cases back here, where I could monitor and tend them. I thought it best – we don’t know how our foes will respond to the indignity of the raid.”
I nodded – the magically-warded Tower of Refuge in Sartha Wood was bound by an arcane girdle that had been augmented by the gods, themselves. I peered out of the Alkan-style arched window down to the yard, where three big pavilions had been erected to tend the wounded.
“That was thoughtful – and speaking of retribution, have there been any reprisals?”
“Talk to your military folk,” she dismissed. “But I haven’t heard anything. I would say we got away with a spectacular victory, if eighty-six of your fellows hadn’t given their lives in the effort.”
“That is fewer casualties than I expected, honestly,” I admitted, in good humor. “I’m still disappointed that we didn’t kill either of them.”
“There just wasn’t the time,” she said, shaking her head, sadly. “I was barely conscious myself, when Wenek and Azar showed up. And I was the only one conscious. We had minutes, no more, before the Nemovorti started arriving.”
“Did . . . did Sire Cei survive?” I asked, quietly, remembering his heroic strike on Sheruel.
“I don’t know how, but yes,” she sighed. “He’s worse off than you – the most worse off, of all my patients. But his dragonhide armor took the brunt of the blast, I think. And he wasn’t Talented enough to bear as much damage as the rest of us.
“Mavone is almost as badly hurt, but his damage is arcane. I’m still trying to determine the extent of it. Dara was the least affected by the blast, but it was enough to kill her bird when it landed.” She looked at me critically. “Now that you’re awake, I’m going to send up some food for you. You’re probably hungry.”
“Starving,” I agreed, realizing just how hungry I was. “Other than that . . . I actually feel pretty good,” I admitted.
“Excellent,” she pronounced. “I give that thing a lot of credit,” she added, nodding toward the Magolith. “We got to know each other a bit, while you were sleeping. So that’s the Handmaiden, inside,” she nodded, her eyes narrowing.
“Installed by the Aronin of Amadia, himself,” I agreed. “I’ll have to tell you about the fascinating conversations we had, in the short time we were together.”
“He’s dead, now?” she asked, sorrowfully.
“At last. He was tortured and maimed by Korbal. But he did not give the location of the arsenal to him,” I assured her.
She sighed, relieved. “That is good news. Minalan, if you knew the terrors it held, what it could do . . . wait, did he tell you where it was?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.
“He wouldn’t. But he gave me some hints. A story for another time,” I apologized.
“We will catch up, I promise. But as soon as you’re feeling able, there are many, many people who dearly want to speak to you.”
And there were – starting with Pentandra. I reached out to her, mind-to-mind, as soon as Lilastien left. She was excited to hear from me.
MIN! You’re back among the living!
Ouch! Don’t joke about that, I winced. I just went toe-to-toe with the Necromancer.
I thought you were going to join him there, for a while, she joked. It’s been two days. I haven’t been this worried about you since the Long March.
Did Arborn make it home, okay?
Thanks to Tyndal and Rondal and the Estasi Knights, yes, thank you. He’s beaten all to three hells, but he’s whole and hale. We’re in a carriage headed to the Anvil, now, she advised. We’re going to take a few days to rest, and then start helping sort out these freed slaves for a few weeks.
What does the military situation look like?
We have strong cavalry patrols running the length of the Penumbra, and all the pele towers are on alert. So far, they haven’t seen more than scouts and infantry patrols dare to follow after us. There were two small battles, when they tried, and we won them both decisively. We’re still preparing for an organized assault, though. I think we just hit them so hard and in so many places that they’re having a hard time recovering.
And the political?
That’s a little more troubling, she admitted. Despite our best efforts to keep this operation quiet, I’ve had two discrete inquiries from Castabriel about it. I focused on the attack on the Penumbra, of course, but they both intimated that they knew something else was going on. But Rardine is safe, and healthy, and as angry as I’ve ever seen her. She feels completely betrayed by her family.
How are she and Anguin getting along?
I’ve only seen them together a few times, but she seems genuinely appreciative of his efforts. Even after she learned the bounty on her return. She wants to wait a few more days before we present her to her parents.
That should be fun, I smirked.
Won’t it? Especially with Tavard bravely setting sail to challenge the Alshari navy, with his super-secret plan?
At least the Castali merchant fleet will enjoy some cover from that, I pointed out. Maybe they won’t lose so many ships to slavers, now, if they have Tavard’s fleet to chew on.
They should be making port in Farise by the end of the week. Then they’ll set out. So our presentation to Rard and Grendine should help distract them from their anxiety about their idiot son.
You know, I already feel safer with him out of the duchy? I observed.
After I spoke with Pentandra, a Tal servant brought me a tray heaping with food – humani type food, not the exaggerated salad the Alka Alon usually ate. Right behind the servant was a visitor, Onranion.
“Lil told me you were awake,” he said, after he greeted me warmly. “I was hoping for a chat before you got preoccupied with the mortal realm.”
“If you don’t mind watching me eat,” I said, indicating the sole chair in the sparse chamber.
“How is our little experiment?” he asked as soon as he sat down. I directed the Magolith to float over to him so that he could examine it.
“See for yourself,” I suggested, as I began devouring a bowl of scrambled eggs. “As far as I can tell, she’s integrating perfectly into the centerpoint. The Aronin set the primary connections, but she’s been stitching herself to them with every pulse of the crystal.”
“Remarkable,” he said, closing his eyes and sending his consciousness into the Magolith in front of him.
That was fine by me – I wanted to eat, and I was feeling very protective of the opportunity. I was halfway through a rasher of bacon when he finally opened his eyes.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked, wonder in his voice as he sat back and regarded the Magolith. “She’s almost as spectacular as the Celestial Mother. And far, far more integrated. I’m . . . saddened I didn’t get to see the Aronin, one last time.
But gratified that he was able to assist. He was a brilliant spellsinger, in his way.”
“We had some interesting conversations,” I said, evenly. I was still uncertain about how I felt about the Alkan.
“His survival is surprising. I figured Sheruel slew all the Alka Alon he took at Boval.”
“I think that was likely his Enshadowed allies, advising him to hold them for interrogation. But they didn’t want Sheruel to discover the arsenal first. They bided their time until they recovered Korbal. He’s the one who really put the question to him.”
“And he did not break,” Onranion said, a statement, not a question.
“Not one little bit,” I nodded. “His daughter should be with the arsenal, now, guarding it directly.” I thought a bit more about our journey. “Wait, there was something else you missed – where’s my kit?” I asked, rising. My gear proved to be in the next room, neatly piled on a bench. I found my weapons harness and got what I needed. One of my hoxter anchors.
“Here,” I presented him, a moment later, a stone four inches across. “Ghost Rock. I have four or five chunks of it. The largest is about twenty times the volume of the Grain of Pors,” I bragged. “I thought you might like to study it.”
His eyes bulged as he realized what I had in hand.
“Minalan! That’s not from—”
“A minor vein,” I assured. “But they were harvesting it. I think they were using it to expand the Umbra, but I’m not sure. I didn’t want to just leave it there for them to use. In any case, I figured you’d like to take a peek, experiment a little,” I said, handing the stone to him.
“Thank you,” he said, absently, as he looked down at it. “Why did you take it?”
“I was raiding and looting, and it was just sitting there,” I said, defensively. “I didn’t want them to have it. And I thought it might be useful.”
“Mayhap,” he shrugged. “But such things can be dangerous.”
“Everything in my life is dangerous,” I countered with a snort. “I can’t take a piss without encountering mortal peril, it seems, sometimes.”
Necromancer: Book Ten Of The Spellmonger Series Page 75
