Nightlord: Sunset (100 page)

I laughed aloud.  Delightful!  The big, bad, powerful magicians were playing Faust to my Mephistopheles!  Now, if only I were as powerful and competent as Mephistopheles…

“I’m sorry to disillusion you, but I’m not evil.  I’m just tragically misunderstood.”

“Whether you are evil or not is debatable,” he admitted, “but we have a preponderance of evidence that suggests you—”

“What evidence?” I demanded, leaning forward.  The armor shifted slightly, then held still.  “As I understand it, you have the writings of a bunch of Church scholars from a thousand years ago or so.  Hardly impartial witnesses.  And, of course, the raids into my homeworld at the behest of the Church.  Again, not the best of examples.  Where is the
evidence?
You have a lot of biased hearsay about nightlords as a whole—and what do you know about
me?
” I demanded.  “Are all magicians alike?  Are all priests?  Why assume—even if what you think you know about nightlords is true—I am anything like the ones you have heard about?”

He raised a finger and opened his mouth to reply.  Then he paused.  My respect for him rose enormously; he realized he didn’t have anything immediate to say, so he closed his mouth and thought about it.

If it’s a requirement that magicians be able to think, not just memorize, I may have to revise my opinion of the breed.  Or maybe T’yl is just exceptional.

“Look,” I said.  “I’ll make you a deal.  If we can make this revolution or coup or whatever it is work, you do your best to see to it that any criminals of capital crimes—rapists, murderers, and so on—are put to death by
me.
  That keeps me fed by giving me things you would normally throw away anyhow.  Do that, and I will never consume
anyone
in the realm unless they
want
to die—with the note that trying to kill me is a way of asking to die.”

I grinned at him.  Even in the day, I can show fangs.

“Of course, I might stick a sword through someone because he’s trying to molest my daughter, but I won’t
consume
him.  Fair?”

T’yl kept thinking.  I could tell he was tempted.

“Better yet,” I continued, “don’t make a snap judgment.  Take your time.  I want you and yours to understand I’m not an evil man.  Well, no more so than is usual for a man.  I’m not exceptionally
good
, either.  I’m neither saint nor devil.  I’m just a man with some added features.”

“I would not wish to agree or disagree quickly,” he said, still thinking.

“I’ll make it easy.  Go talk to your friends.  I’ll keep this room for as long as I can—I’m not carrying bags of gold around, you know—and we can meet here for lunch tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Whenever.  In the meantime, I’ll look over Tobias’ house and see if I want to nail his hide to a wall.”

“That sounds eminently fair,” he agreed.  He drew a pouch from his belt and placed it on the table.  It clinked.   “In the spirit of our… cooperation… please accept this gift.  It should serve to keep our meeting-place reserved for some time.”

“That will be very helpful,” I agreed. 

“Is there any other service I might provide?” he asked.

“Actually, yes.”

He had begun to rise, but he resumed his seat, looking inquisitive.

“What I would like,” I said, “is to know more about that world-gate thing.  It’s the only way I know of that can get back to my homeworld.”

I don’t really want to go back.  I miss a lot of things about it—showers, for one.  Toilet paper.  Chocolate.  Central heat and air.  Electric lights.  Computers.  Telephones.

But I do want some things from there.  Books, mainly.  Some tools.  And a lot of ammunition and explosives.  This can be a violent world, and I’m about to have kids in it.

I wonder if Tamara would be willing to visit my world with me?

I felt a pang of homesickness, the first in a long time.  What would Travis think of Tamara?  What would Hutch think?  I’d like for them to meet her.  I’d be very willing to show her off to them and them to her—provided my friends managed to be on their best behavior.  It would be wonderful to have everyone in one place.  Maybe a few of them would like to relocate…

I shook my head and came back to the present.  T’yl was talking.

“Indeed.  Indeed.  I can understand your interest in reaching your own world again.  The archway, the diagram, the keys… It is quite complicated.  I was not yet born when it was first enchanted, but I have studied its crafting as part of my training.  What would you wish to learn?”

“How it works.  I accidentally made contact with it when I was using a scrying pool, then found it again deliberately through the brute-force method—all power, no finesse.  So I’m understandably curious.”

He thought for a moment.  “Very well.  I presume that you can read?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will have a tome sent over this afternoon.  It is a text for journeymen-magicians, but you have some experience with the artifacts themselves.  If you have any difficulties in the study of it, I will attempt to amplify upon the text when we meet again.”

“Fair enough.  Thank you.  How long do you think it will be before we have our lunch?”

“I will have to arrange for a convocation of the Academy.  Even via spells of vision and voice, it will take some time to arrange.  Perhaps a matter of a day or two—a week at the most.”

“Excellent.”  I remembered something.  “By they way…”

“Yes?”

“Have you noticed that when a priest prays, it’s often a spell?”

He nodded.  “That has been noted.  Many of their prayers are ritual magic.  A few gifted individuals pray and obtain results without formalized ritual; those may well be actual divine works.  But most clergy use the ritual spells they call prayers.  Some of us have studied them, but we cannot make them work.”

“Why not?”

“The symbology they use is alien to our understanding.  Their magic is based on faith, not on an understanding of the forces involved.”

“So it’s magic, just a different style of magic?”

“In essence, yes,” he agreed.  “Priests spend years in study and training to learn the symbology of their profession.  They learn to believe, if you will, with such a fervor that their belief generates power.  It has been theorized they also draw on the power of belief from all those who worship, possibly even from the sacrifices in the temples.”

“Whereas a magician,” I countered, “draws power from the magical field of the world and focuses it by will?”

“That is rather imprecise, but predominantly true.”

“Good to know.  I wondered if you knew about the priests’ spells.”

“Oh, yes,” T’yl replied.  “The magic of faith has been the subject of much study.  Some magicians have become priests through such study; they have found faith.”

“But not many?” I guessed, smiling.

“Not many,” he agreed.  “There is one great flaw in faith-based magic.”

“That is?”

“One can only use it when the belief is complete.”

I thought about it.  If you don’t believe, you don’t get results.  If your faith isn’t strong enough, you don’t get a miracle.  It’s just a question of Who—or what—you believe in.  Believe in the power of your spells, whether they
should
work or not, and they
do.
  Believe in your god(dess) and it answers.

“Good point.  Thank you.”

I stood up and offered my hand.  The suit of armor stepped closer and stood next to the table, almost between T’yl and I.

“I look forward to meeting with you again,” I said, ignoring it.  T’yl eyed my hand for several seconds; I could see him thinking.  At last, he stood up and gestured the armor aside.  He clasped wrists with me. 

“I am pleased to have met you.”

After T’yl had gone to talk to his magician buddies, I went out for a walk.  Carrillon is the largest of the cities in Rethven and I wanted to get a feel for it.  I also wanted to know my way around, at least marginally.  You never know when you’re going to have to sprint for the city gate before it closes.

I also saw the cathedral.

The thing was huge.  It looked like a cross between Notre Dame and the Astrodome.  It was a dome-like structure done in marble and glass, heavily carved and decorated.  The whole building was done on a massive scale.  Big blocks of stone, big stairs, big doors.  It would have looked perfectly natural somewhere in Washington, D.C.

Surrounding the cathedral was a large, paved area, almost a court.  Clustered near the doors—there was a set of doors at all four cardinal directions—there were merchants and vendors of many sorts, mostly in ecclesiastical and religious wares.  I saw all sorts of small animals for sale, as well as incense, candles, and a broad miscellany of other goods.  Business was going on, but didn’t seem to be lively.

I’m gutsy.  I went inside.

The air inside was noticeably warmer.  Sunlight streamed through windows in brightly-colored rays.  The whole of the interior was one large room, the lion’s share of which was occupied by benches.  In the center of the room was a raised stage for the ceremonial whatever.  I headed down one of the aisles to look it over.  As I approached, I noticed the seating got more comfortable and elaborate the closer it was to the stage.

There were people in the cathedral this afternoon.  Most were up near the stage at some sort of kneeler arrangement.  A pair of priests was accepting offerings—incense was crumbled into smoking braziers, birds were sacrificed, that sort of thing—and a number of worshippers were simply hunched down, heads bowed, praying.

Nobody came up to greet me.  Nobody even noticed I was there.  I found a seat in the front circle of pews—that close to the stage, I can’t call them “benches”—and rested.

There were two altars, one on each of the east and west sides of the stage.  The western altar had the line for praying and sacrificing and such.  The eastern altar had a few priests in front of it, praying.  The contrast between the two was striking.  The priests at the western altar were all dressed up and formal, smiling, taking offerings, chanting ritual prayer over the worshippers.  The ones at the eastern altar were in plainer garments—still obviously vestments—and didn’t move from their kneeling and praying.  I got the feeling the western-altar priests were ignoring the eastern-altar priests.

At last, a greeter came up to me.  His robes were very ornate and exceptionally fine.  He wore them well, too.  He stood with erect posture and the hem came within an inch of the floor.  It was hard to tell, but I thought he might be a little heavy for his height.

“Good sir,” he began, “this is the Cathedral of Light.”

“So I see.  Very impressive.”

He looked pained.  “Sir knight, I regret I must inform you that you are still bearing arms.”

I glanced down at Firebrand.  It had been a bit awkward to sit on a pew; they hadn’t been designed with swords in mind.

“So I am.”

“It is not permitted within a house of Light.”

Well, that’s nice,
Firebrand said, to me. 
I give off more light than
this
joker.

I smiled at Firebrand’s comment.

“I am terribly sorry,” I said, both to Firebrand and to the priest.  I got to my feet.  “Good day.”

The priest looked somewhat taken aback, but said nothing.  I walked out of the cathedral.

Not very sword-friendly, are they?

“Not really.”

You could have hung me up somewhere, boss.  Nobody would steal me, I promise.

“Nah.  I saw all I wanted in there.  Besides, I’d no sooner part from you than I’d part with a finger.”

Firebrand was silent for a while.  I walked around the cathedral, doing a tourist impression.

Boss?

“Yeah?”

Thanks.

“De nada.”

It was easy to see where the priests lived.  It was to the north, just across the court from the cathedral.  The place was built in a different style, but it was just as massive.  T’yl had described it as a mansion.  I thought of it more as an ornate fortress.  It was a big, heavy place, easily large enough to have a hundred bedrooms—and hold off a catapult for a while.  It had its own privacy fence, just a six-foot-high stone wall, and some ecclesiastical guards for a security force.  It even had its own stable.

The prison wagon I’d seen earlier was parked in front of the stable.  People accused of heresy and blasphemy apparently get delivered to a building full of priests.  I’d have thought they’d go to Telen and the Hand headquarters.  Still, Tobias was
here
, and he was in charge of the Hand.

It made me curious, though.  Might be worthwhile to break out a prisoner or three if I could do it.

I headed back to the Inn of the Golden Horn.  There I got out a small glass ball and started hunting for Linnaeus.  The image that formed showed him sitting at a table, writing something; I couldn’t make it out.

“Linnaeus.”

He jerked and stared wildly about.  I saw him mouth a question, but I don’t read lips.