Nightlord: Orb (75 page)

“Still burning.  Are you safe?”

“As safe as I ever am,” I admitted.  “I thought I’d call and chat for a bit.  The fire doesn’t seem to be burning as quickly as it did the last time.”

“The last time we were talking across the void.”

“Roaming charges.  Got it.  But we should manage for quite a while, here.  Oh!  Have I introduced you to Mary?”

“I think not.”

“Mary, this is Amber, my daughter.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” Mary offered, a memorized phrase in Rethven.

“And I, you.  I look forward to meeting you in the flesh.”

Mary glanced at me and I translated.

“Amber,” I added, “Mary doesn’t speak Rethven—Rethvenese?—very well.  She’s learning it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  Is there a language I should use?”

“It’s okay.  It’ll be a good exercise, trying to follow along.  I’ll go over it with her later to see how much she got and to answer questions.”

“Always a teacher?” Amber asked, fiery form smiling brighter.

“Sometimes a student,” I countered.  “Such as on the subject of Sparky.”

Amber winced.

“Father?  Could you please…?”

“Right.  The Mother of Flame.  I forgot.”

“Thank you.”

“So, about that incident.”

“Yes.  I was wondering when we would have a chance to chat.”

“I’ve had some time to think about this and I haven’t enjoyed it.  Before we get to whatever story the Mother of Flame told you, understand that I take whatever she says as a piece of manipulation, not the truth.  Oh, the truth may be in there, but I’ve seen several examples of her manipulation, if not outright cruelty, to lead me down that road.  I’m not intending to bash your personal deity, you understand.  It’s… we don’t get along.”

“Dad,” she said, and I felt my eyes widen.  She didn’t used to call me that so often.  “I know why you don’t like Her.  I can see your side of it, even as I can see Her side of it.  You’re not wrong, but you’re not in the right, either.  You have a right to be displeased and mistrustful of Her… but there is much you owe Her, too.”

“All right.  I can admit that.  I’m ready to listen—to you.”

“Thank you.  Let’s start with Beryl, my brother.”

“Good start.”

“Beryl was born with golden hair, not red.  While yellow hair is not common south of the
viksagi
lands, it is not unknown.  Beryl’s hair was not such a yellow, but a brighter, golden color, the mark of the Goddess upon a male child.  At the time, there had not been a male child born to a fire-witch—a priestess of the Flame—since before Zirafel was cursed.  They are the flame-crowned, the chosen sons of the Goddess.

“While the priestesses can use the powers of the Mother of Flame for many things, we cannot call down the full power of all Her blessings.  When Beryl grew to manhood, he would be able to do things we could not—and be unable to do some things we could.  Different talents, different powers, different blessings.  Nascent within him was the most powerful of all such blessings.  He possessed the potential to draw down the Goddess.  He could be Her consort on this mortal plane, rather than a sister whom She would aid.”

“How literally do you mean that?” I asked.  “The part about ‘consort’ and ‘draw down’?”

“I mean, as a man, he would call to Her and She would come to him.  Rather than reach through a priestess to work Her will, Beryl could call Her into this world in Her own form.  Once grown, Beryl would have been able to channel such force that She could manifest on this mortal plane through his efforts.  So, I suppose you might say I meant both of those literally.”

“Huh.”  I recalled a discussion with some gods.  Creating an avatar on a mortal plane was a lavish expenditure of power even by their standards.  But if you could get the mortals to do most of the work… Come to think of it, now I understand better how the Hand could summon an avatar of the Hunter to come after me, complete with green-fire-tongued hounds.  A dozen cattle, properly sacrificed, maybe a small village—or maybe the contents of some city’s municipal dungeon?  Would the Hand do that, itself, as an agency of the Church of Light?  Possibly, but unlikely.  Would magicians in the service of the Hand have done so?  Definitely.

I’m still glad the Hunter saw it as less of a contract and more of a bribe.

“And this power,” Amber went on, “or this
capacity
for power, is part of what drew the dark thing to him.  It could live within him, wearing his flesh, and his flesh would not be consumed from within by the power of the dark spirit.  As you may have noticed, it occupied a succession of bodies, each of which declined in health despite all healing magicks.”

“I figured it out in hindsight, yes.”

“Using Beryl’s body, it would not have that problem.  Another reason for choosing the baby was the fact he
was
a baby—defenseless and unable to resist the invader.  He would grow to manhood with the dark soul as the sole possessor of the flesh and impossible to evict.

“And the final reason… the knowledge that taking your son away from you would hurt you.”  The flaming figure spread her hands.  “That was the only reason it needed, of course.  It is a creature of hatred.”

“All right.  I understand why it wanted Beryl.  Now go over what happened.”

“This is what I have been told,” she began, “from both my mother and the Mother of Flame.  When the demon destroyed Beryl and took his flesh as its own, the Mother knew of the deed—She does not see the future, you know.”

“So I’ve gathered.  Go on.”

“Having become aware of this crime, the Mother spoke to Tamara during the dawn consecration rite, where the children are dedicated to the Mother.  This was, I think, on the seventh day after our birth.  That is when it should have taken place.  So, Tamara lifted me up to face the dawn and the fires in the brazier swelled up.  She held me in the flames and I laughed at their touch.  Then she set me down and lifted Beryl up to face the dawn.

“Had it been still my brother within the flesh, the fires would have done then what they did for me.  This would have surprised my mother, of course; she had no idea that her
son
—a male child?  Ridiculous!—could be a fire-witch.  In truth, the first Consort of Fire in more than a thousand years.

“Instead, the fires rose, as you or I might expect, knowing what we know, and the Goddess spoke from the flames, demanding the infant be hurled into the fire.”

Amber paused.  I didn’t like this story and I think she could tell.

“Dad, this is where my mother lost some of her sanity.”

“Go on,” I encouraged, gently.  “I want to hear it all.”

“As a priestess of the Flame all her life, it was her… purpose?  Obligation?  Duty?  She
had
to do what the Mother said to do.  Disobeying is like… like…” she groped for something, trying to explain.  “If you were out for a stroll and heard a child screaming in terror and pain, could you continue with your stroll?”

“That’s a silly question.  No, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Exactly so.”

“I think I begin to get the point.  Okay.  So, Tamara has Beryl held up to the dawn, the flames jump up, the voice of her goddess tells her to throw Beryl into the fire.  She doesn’t know flames wouldn’t bother Beryl, so her mothering instincts run smack into her religious training with a resounding thud.”

“I’m not certain I would phrase it so, but the essence is there,” Amber agreed.  “When Tamara refused her Goddess, the Mother reached through her flesh and took control.  That action took precious time, for Tamara resisted.  This warned the dark spirit within Beryl’s body and gave it the opportunity to flee.  By the time the Mother could force Tamara’s hands to hurl the empty flesh into the fire, the thing was gone, vanished into the long shadows of sunrise.”

“But, if Beryl is supposed to be this super-duper fire guy, what good would it do?  The fires wouldn’t bother him.”

“For that, I have only the Mother’s word.  Do you want to hear it?”

“Yeah.”

“According to Her, the thing within Beryl would have withstood any normal fire, shielded within that house of unburning flesh.  But when the Mother manifested to destroy it, the fires of the consecration rite were changed into the holy blaze you have seen before.”

“Yeah, that’s a different kettle of plasma,” I agreed.

“Within the manifested flames of the Mother, nothing made of darkness could exist.  She would have burned the evil from the flesh, destroying it.”

“And Beryl?”

“When the dark thing took him, it destroyed the infant soul within.  With the dark thing burned away, Beryl’s body would also have died.  Then the Mother would have turned it to ashes within the divine fire.”

I stacked more wood on the fire for Amber and walked away.  A few minutes to think about this were not out of order.  Nobody else seemed inclined to disagree, so I walked a bit and thought in silence.

What would I have done?

My newborn son is in my hands.  I look into him and discover some dark Thing has crept into him in the night and eaten his infant soul.  All that’s left is the flesh of an infant, looking at me with eyes that look like mine, housing something terrible that wears his flesh like a protective garment.

He still squirms and wriggles, grasps my finger with his tiny hand, gurgles and cries.

Inside, I can see the dark Thing that now owns the body.  It’s learning to drive it, exactly as my son would have.

Could I kill a baby?  Could I stop thinking of it as a baby?  It stopped being a child when its soul was destroyed.

I don’t have a problem with killing monsters.  I include human monsters; I am in a position to look into the souls of men and see the evil therein.  I can be judge, jury, and executioner because I
know
what evil lurks there, what good shines through, and can take their measure with a sharp look and some concentration.

But a baby?  Could I ignore the body and see only the soul—or the darkness taking the place of one?

There’s an ethical dilemma question about knowing the future.  It runs something like this.  Given that you know a child will one day grow up to become a monster—you don’t think it or suspect it; you know it.  It’s a certainty; it’s a fact—could you kill the child to stop the monster?

Sparky could.  I’m not sure I could.

Is Sparky a deity?  Not by my standards!  But does her kind play by different rules than us more material types?  Whatever they are, should they be held to the same ethical standards?  Never mind morals.  I’m not qualified to make moral judgments, no matter how often I do it.  Should beings of their powers be held to the same ethical standards as people?  Or higher, stricter standards?  Or could their powers merit more relaxed ethics?

Again, I don’t know.  I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

What it boils down to is the question:  Did Sparky do the right thing?  It seems like such a simple question.  Some probably say yes, some probably say no, and I have to say I don’t know.  I’m not sure what I would have done.  Isn’t that the definition of right and wrong?  At least, for an individual?  What would
I
do?  Our actions define us, don’t they?

My pacing circled back to the fire.  Everything keeps taking me back around to the fire again, one way or another.

“Dad?” Amber asked.

“O-kay.  I’ve thought about it, and I’m not happy.”

“I can see that,” she murmured, softly, no more than a rustling of flame over a low fire.  She seemed to be looking behind me.

“Is my shadow doing its thing again?” I asked, resisting the urge to look.

“It looks unhappy,” Amber reported, faintly.  Mary and Bronze nodded agreement.  Mary’s horse stood there, trembling, whites all around its eyes.  I think it would have bolted long ago if Bronze hadn’t been there.  Mary might have bolted if Bronze hadn’t been there.  My shadow can creep me out; I don’t blame everyone else for being nervous around it.

“Fine.”  I took a deep breath.  “I dislike using you as a messenger between myself and the Mother—it smacks of two parents who won’t talk to each other and use their kid as a go-between.  It’s unfair to you.”

“I don’t mind, Dad.  Really, I don’t.  I act as go-between, as you put it, between the Mother and pretty much everyone else.  It’s my job as a priestess.”

“That’s good to know.  So, tell her this:  I understand what she did and why she did it.  I don’t have to like it.  The best I can do is accept it—which I don’t, or haven’t.  Not yet, anyway, but I promise to work on it—without condoning it, hopefully without condemning it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Amber admitted, smiling radiantly.  “I’m sure She will be pleased, as well.”

“I didn’t try to be understanding because of her,” I replied.  “I tried to be understanding because I still have a wonderful daughter and a fantastic granddaughter.  The Mother of Flame still has a lot to answer for.”

“Thank you.  But how else has the Mother offended…?”

“Zirafel.  She cursed the place and everyone in it for daring to propose the idea of religious tolerance.”