Changer (Athanor) (23 page)

An open door reveals a room decorated largely with owls.  There are metal and ceramic owls on the shelves about the room, glass cases with owls carved of wood and stone in the corners, and owls woven into the rugs on the floor.  There are no stuffed owls, though, nor any living ones, but through the window the Changer sees a tall cottonwood tree which most certainly looks like a place an owl might nest.

Stepping to the doorway, the Changer politely clears his throat.  Hearing him, Vera turns from rearranging the clothes in a tall polished oak dresser.

“Come in!  Come in!  You might as well get a look at all the trouble you’re putting me to.”

“Me?”  He cocks an eyebrow.

“You,” she insists, but her tone is friendly.

The Changer browses as he waits for Vera to tell him what he can do.  Vera’s suite is quite large.  Compared to a raven’s nest or a coyote den, it seems a lot of space for one person.   There is a parlor, a bedroom, and a spacious bathroom.  The walk-in closet off of the bedroom is large enough to be another small room.  Sensing that Vera feels shy about his presence in the bedroom, he drifts back into the parlor.

A large loom holding a partially woven blanket dominates one wall.  The pattern is somewhat Navajo—Wide Ruins, he thinks—but far more detailed than usual.  Near the west window an intricately carved mahogany table holds an array of small, wide-mouthed glass jars, each filled with tiny glass beads.  There is no television, but a compact stereo and a selection of discs is tucked unobtrusively in one corner.

“I’ll bring that,” Vera says, gesturing to the stereo, “and I’m trying to decide about the beads.  I’m working on a project now, but I’m not certain if I’ll have time to get to it while Eddie’s bedridden.  Anson likes to weave—he might enjoy having materials available.”

“Kind of you.”

Vera shrugs.  “I don’t have a lot in common with the Spider, but weaving is one thing we share.  He made that hanging on the east wall.”

She gestures.  The Changer inspects the delicate, lacy thing.  “Very pretty.  Did you make your rugs?”

“Yep, and the blankets, and the wall hangings, and several of the pieces in the offices as well.  It’s one of my favorite pastimes, but I won’t sell the stuff.  I’ve a lot more experience than any human weaver, and they can’t compete.  Here in New Mexico so many of the poor folks rely on textile weaving for a living that I’m especially careful.”

“That’s considerate.”

She checks if he is mocking her, decides that he is not, and smiles.  “I try.  We are responsible to both humans and athanor.”

“Athanor?”

“Humans aren’t stupid.  Our crafts could provide a means to tracing us.  Even though I try to innovate, I realize that my preferences for colors, for certain shapes and patterns, even for certain materials, could lead an expert to me.”

“So you keep your works for yourself.”

“For a limited audience,” she corrects, “and usually with the promise that they will only be displayed in private areas.”

“Seems wise.”

“I
am
known for wisdom,” she says, laughing at her own joke.

Shutting the dresser drawers, she looks at the clothing stacked on the bed.  “There.  I’ve emptied several drawers for Anson and moved the clothing from the smaller closet.  I’ll lock the walk-in closet.  No need to tempt him to play with my belongings.”

“Do you really think that he would?”

“Changer, this
is
Anansi the Spider we’re talking about.”

“True.”

They carry several boxes of clothing, toiletries, and personal belongings to the suite in the north wing that Vera has selected.  It’s smaller than her own, but large nonetheless, with a bath and curtained-off bedroom.

“Arthur,” the Changer says, setting down a box and looking around, “once again has a castle.”

Vera nods.  “And for similar reasons.  Like a medieval king, he must be prepared to offer hospitality to his subjects.  Much of the hacienda stands empty, but he can entertain a good number here.  Overflow goes into hotels.  But here our people can be among their own if they wish.”

“Very kind of the King,” the Changer says.  “I certainly have been glad of his hospitality.  Where are his rooms?”

“He has one of the suites across the hall from mine,” Vera says.  “One that overlooks the courtyard.  Lovern has the other, when he’s here.  Eddie has the one next to mine.”

“I’m surprised that Arthur has rooms overlooking the courtyard.  Doesn’t the noise of the household bother him?”

Vera shakes her head.  “Not at all.  He likes having people about him.  Eddie prefers some privacy—that’s why he chose a suite overlooking the grounds.”

“And you?”

“I like both company and privacy.  I could have had rooms in an empty wing, but I would have missed the sound of people coming and going.  Even when I’ve dwelt in a convent under a vow of silence there have been others about.  I don’t think I would make a very good hermit.”

“Apparently not,” the Changer says.  He unfolds the bedspread embroidered with owls that had been one of his burdens and shakes it out over the bed.  “There.  Is there anything else I can help you move?”

“I think not,” Vera says, “at least for now.  If I need to get anything else from my room, I can ask Anson.”

The Changer nods.  “Isn’t Lovern late reporting?”

Vera glances at her watch.  “Not yet, but close.  I hope nothing has happened to him.”

“Me too.”

As if on cue, the phone rings.  Vera picks up the extension in her new room.

“Pendragon Productions.”

“Lovern here.  I’ve found nothing, nothing at all.  Is there anything I can do before I come back?”

“No, nothing that I can think of.  You might call Arthur and see if he needs anything.”

“I’ll do that,” Lovern promises.  “And you may expect me back at the hacienda within the hour if you do not hear otherwise.  Is the Changer there?”

“Yes.  He returned recently.  No news.”

“Damn.  Tell him I would like to speak with him when I get in—if he will grant me some of his time.”

“I will.  Be safe.”

“I will.”

Vera sets down the receiver.  “That was Lovern.  He’s had no luck either.  He asked me to beg audience with you.”

“I doubt,” the Changer’s expression is wry, “that those were precisely his words.”

“Nearly so,” Vera says.  “He sounded worried, tense.”

“He has reason to,” the Changer says.  “Of course I will speak with him.  I’m curious what he might want.”

Vera surveys the unpacking that awaits her.  “I should get to this.”

“Let me excuse myself then.”

“No,” Vera blushes, a faint rose that goes very well with her grey eyes.  “I mean, why don’t you keep me company?”

The Changer studies her, raises an eyebrow.  “Very well.  I’ll stay for a time.”

“Tell me,” Vera says, almost nervously, “tell me about what it’s like to live as a wild creature.”

“Very well,” the Changer repeats.  He pauses, tries to find words for experiences that are wordless.  “It varies from creature to creature, from place to place, but, I find a certain joy in the life.”

Vera nods, shakes out a skirt, fits it on a hanger, finding a certain joy herself in the rise and fall of the ancient’s deep, gravelly voice.

“Hello, Arthur?  This is Lovern.”

“Hello, Lovern.”  The King’s voice sounds weary but steady.  So he had sounded at Camlan.

“I’ve finished my hunting.  No luck.  I was wondering if you needed anything.”

“Not really.  The staff here has decided to be kind to me.  I’ve been fed—and the food here is not bad at all—and been offered a steady stream of coffee, juice, and desserts.  Vera brought some books earlier, and I have my laptop.”

“And Eddie?”

“Mending.  They should let me take him home tomorrow or the next day.”

“Well, good night, then.”

“Night.”

Hanging up the phone, Lovern shakes his head in disbelief.  He is very tired, and he doesn’t dare overlook any important factor.  In the past, he has done so to devastating result.

Completely honest with himself in a fashion he would consider
lèse majesté
from anyone else—even Arthur—Lovern snakes his memories back across the years to the mid-1850s.

Those were the years when, although most were unaware, the sun was beginning to set on the British Empire.  Although Lovern himself had not been born in England, for many centuries he had involved himself in the plots, peculiarities, and purposes of that island realm.  When she had begun to extend her control across the oceans to other lands—including the one that had given Lovern birth—he had followed her actions attentively.

In many ways, the aggressiveness with which he had aided the British Empire’s expansion directly correlated with his resentment toward that bitch Nimue, who had made him captive.  Once he had broken free of her spells and forced her to hide from
him
, Lovern had wrought intricate personal wards and rebuilt his personal power base.  Then he had set out to show…

Who?

Lovern stops in the middle of unlocking his car door.  To whom had he been demonstrating his power?  Certainly not to Arthur.  The former king of England had been almost pathetically happy when his councilor had returned (although Eddie had been less so).  Not to the other mages.  Among them, Merlin was acknowledged as without peer.  Who then?

Perhaps to himself.  Perhaps he had needed to assure himself following his disgrace that he was worthy of his legend and of all that he had wrought.

For whatever reason, Merlin (then Richard Wilson) had gone with King George III’s subjects to India, the jewel of the empire’s colonial possessions.  He had been present when Lord North first regulated the East India Company.  Careful never to draw too much attention to himself, he had traveled from region to region, offering advice, casting small enchantments, spinning a touch of intrigue.  Many a colonial administrator was unaware how many of his decisions had been influenced by his unobtrusive counselor until Richard Wilson (or Lovern’s successive identities Francis Eldridge and John Rowan) had moved on.

Getting into his car, Lovern forces himself to remember the moment when everything went to hell.

John Rowan had been in Delhi when the Mutiny broke out and only his skill at illusion had kept him from being slaughtered with the other English.  Making his way through a countryside given over to horrid violence—both Indian and British—he realized that the rebellion was too big for him to contain.  For the first time since Nimue had made him prisoner he felt absolute, sickening terror.

For too long he had been a ruler, although a ruler from the shadows.  He had forgotten how angry subjects can become, especially when their rulers begin to treat them as counters on a game board rather than living, breathing entities: people with families, loyalties, and opinions all their own.

Made forever an exile by the passage of time, John Rowan had forgotten how humans can become attached to their homeland, how weary they can grow of the intrusions of conquerors.

Too knowledgeable about the forces that create religion, the wizard had forgotten the power of faith: how faith transforms the teachings of a single man or small group, how a simple code of conduct can become what the followers believe is a sure road to the rewards of the afterlife.

Having been acquainted with Buddha, Jesus, and Mohammed, having known some of those whose mystique shaded and shaped the Hindu pantheon, John Rowan had overlooked the fact that to the followers of those varied teachings the codes of their religion, the tenets of their faith, were more powerful, more essential than any king, queen, or army.

Thus, the blood had flowed and many—Hindu, Buddhist, Moslem, Christian—Indian and British alike—had died.  John Rowan had been listed among the dead.  Under a quickly crafted, short-lived persona, Lovern had helped Lord Canning, the new Governor-General, with that brave man’s policy of reconciliation.

When this had been done, still acutely aware of how his meddling had helped create the circumstances that had led to the Mutiny, Lovern had returned to England.  To no one, not even Arthur, had he revealed the guilt and horror that suffused him at the thought that had he not meddled in India, the rebellion might never have occurred or, if the Mutiny had been inevitable, that at least it might not have been so bloody.

Instead he had taken up residence on an isolated Pacific island.  There he had renewed his studies of magic and consolidated the notes he had made during his nearly hundred year sojourn in India.

As the immediate horror of the Mutiny faded from memory, Lovern considered the good he had done during his time with the British: The power of the East India Company had been reduced; the vile practice of suttee had been abolished; a successful campaign against the Thuggee had been mounted; several educational institutes had been established.  For all of this and more he could claim at least some credit; surely his time in India had not been a complete debacle.

After twenty or so years, Lovern once again felt confident of his abilities as a counselor to those in power.  Queen Victoria’s proclamation in 1877 as Kaiser-i-Hind, Empress of India, seemed public proof that the debacle of the Mutiny had not been of lasting harm to either India or England.