The Dark Lord Read online

  Vivian glanced in their direction as she wound a fawn-colored scarf about her. She studied Eldrin critically. “Is he a cad? Should I fear for my friend’s virtue?” she asked as she fanned herself with the back of her hand in a mock swoon.

  I chuckled aloud at the thought. “Eldrin? No, not unless she’s into etherspace optics or obscure subworld simulations. His idea of a good time is reading dry academic articles on subether particles and higher order ritual math.”

  “Well, I’m afraid your friend is unlikely to find his soulmate in Dawn,” she said shaking her head in exaggerated sadness. “She is an almost insufferable proponent of proactive magical ethics, with an emphasis on the ‘active’ part.”

  I shrugged myself into my trench coat and said, “I think we should leave them to it, then. Perhaps opposites will attract.”

  Vivian grew still and stared at them, the gold rings in her eyes glowing brightly in the dim light of the pub. After a few seconds, she blinked and said, “I don’t think so. She’ll probably leave in a huff when he casually dismisses some important point of moral ethics she’s trying to make, and then he’ll spend the rest of the night wondering why she didn’t fancy him.”

  My mouth fell open and she blushed ever so slightly. “It’s just a guess,” she said, and then added with a wink, “Mostly.”

  We both laughed.

  The sound of her laughter and the smile she gave me as I helped her into her coat made me a little light-headed. Either that or the beer she’d bought me was stronger than I’d realized. Whatever the cause I enjoyed the buzz as we made our way out of Arda Hall.

  It is a grand feeling to step out of a bar with someone you’ve just met. Your mind thrums with possibilities. I savored that feeling as Vivian directed me down a path toward her college. She slid in beside me and tucked her arm through mine. The night had deepened the bite in the air, but the feel of her touch and the subtle scent of spice that hovered around her banished the cold. I felt no pain.

  I did have a lot of questions though. Had she been joking about waiting for me? If she had been telling the truth, why had she waited? I was self-aware enough to know that I didn’t have a chiseled physique or roguish good looks or a way with the ladies. I considered her and these questions as we strolled along.

  After only a little thought, it came to me that there was one logical reason for her to stalk me: she needed help on an end of term project. She was an acolyte, and it’s exactly the sort of thing an aggressive student might do to ensure a better grade. The likelihood that she was not interested in me, but instead in what I could do for her, was a bit of a letdown, but I decided I would prefer to live in this moment even if it was illusory.

  After a minute or so she pulled away from me and said, “I’m waiting.”

  “Waiting?” I asked, afraid I had missed some sign that she wanted me to kiss her or, well, something. I was glad it was dark, because I blushed at the “somethings” that ran through my mind.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve told you all about me. I want to know about you. What are you studying?”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. I had a feeling that reality was about to intrude itself on my blissfully illusory evening. I tried to change the subject. “It isn’t that interesting. You would be bored.”

  “You don’t think I’ll understand it. You think I’m nothing but a silly acolyte.” She crossed her arms and fixed me with an exaggerated pout.

  “Not at all. It really is boring. I promise.”

  I was still clinging to the hope that maybe she wasn’t only interested in me as a potential tutor, but beyond that I simply didn’t want to talk about my research. I didn’t want to find out that all she wanted was insight on subworld dynamics because she was failing a class, but I definitely didn’t want to have to think about Trelari or Morgarr or anything else that had happened. What I wanted was to talk about silly things, like what she liked to do on the weekends, and what kind of music she enjoyed, and whether or not she was going to let me kiss her good night. And, the big question, would she see me again.

  “It can’t be that bad,” she said.

  “Trust me, it is, and I should know. I’ve been living my research for the past three months.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, and, much to my relief, slipped her arm back through mine.

  I thought about how I could explain my research without being tedious or getting into the specifics. I looked up at the moons and said, “It isn’t a very good analogy, but have you ever watched someone blowing bubbles and wondered why some last longer than others?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I guess everyone wonders that when they’re children. Well, when they aren’t trying to pop them.”

  I laughed. “This may be a better analogy than I thought.” I reluctantly untangled my arm from hers and held my hands out in the air before us, my fingers spread wide. “Imagine subworlds are bubbles floating through the air. At any moment some bubbles are forming and some are popping . . .”

  “I don’t think the people on those worlds would like this analogy,” she pointed out.

  “I suppose not,” I agreed, but as that was heading into conversational territory I was determined to avoid, I abruptly pivoted. “The important thing is that magi have been studying the ‘why’ of subworld existence for years. Some of them, like my roommate, believe that subworlds really are like bubbles, and that if you could understand the physics and mathematics of how they’re created, then you could determine when they’ll cease to exist. Others think of subworlds as organisms that live and die and get sick just like any organism.”

  She frowned.

  “See,” I said, “I’m boring you. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “No, you’re not boring me,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s just that it’s awful. All these worlds full of people. There must be a way to stop them from dying.”

  “Exactly,” I said, clasping my hands together. “And that’s what I’ve been working on.”

  “How?”

  There was newfound warmth and intensity in her voice. Despite my suspicions about her motives and my discomfort talking about my work, I puffed up at her attention. “Well, I believe that the reason subworlds cease to exist is that they become unbalanced. I don’t care if this ‘imbalance’ is framed as ether particle expansion or a reality matrix virus, but at some point it rips the world apart.”

  I glanced at her to make sure she was still interested. The focus I saw in her eyes was almost unnerving. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I continued. “If my assumption is correct, then the next question is, can you fix this imbalance? What subworld sociologists have found is that the destabilization of subworlds usually accompanies or is accompanied by an increase in sociological upheaval within the native population: war, famine, wide-spread destruction. Sometimes the societal chaos is resolved and the instability reverses, and sometimes not. It’s like—” I tried to think of yet another good analogy “—like when you kick an anthill. And all the ants scurry about. If you watch them, sometimes they reconstruct the nest, and sometimes they simply walk away.”

  Vivian frowned more deeply and folded her arms across her chest. “Awful.”

  I found her reaction interesting. I didn’t disagree, but it was unusual. Almost from our first day of admittance, the magi of Mysterium teach us not to get sentimental about subworlds or their inhabitants. It isn’t that we are encouraged to abuse or demean them, but their lives are so short and uncertain that it is difficult for Mysterians to build a real attachment to anything except the larger arc of their histories. I wondered if this was Vivian’s first exposure to the reality of subworld existence, or if her disgust was directed at my admittedly crude analogies.

  I wished again that she would let me change the subject, but absent that, I decided to move the conversation onto safer ground. “It is very bad. The good news is that I believe I have come up with a way of stabilizing unbalanced subworlds—potentially forever.”
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  Vivian’s face lit up in a way that made my heart flutter. “You’ve done this? How?”

  I smiled at her as I answered. “It’s complicated, but in essence, I overlay a carefully designed spell construct onto the subworld’s reality matrix that operates to rebalance the world in the event of a destabilization.”

  I had been so caught up in walking with her that I had not been paying attention to where we were going. With a start I realized that we were approaching the Subworld Studies building. I was surprised, because the SSB was on the opposite side of campus from the acolyte colleges. A notion began to grow on me that she might be taking a long way home to extend our night.

  She interrupted my pleasant musing with a rush of words. “And once the spell is cast it’ll stay that way forever?”

  “Not exactly. The idea that you can stabilize a subworld is not new. Many Mysterium mages have intervened in collapses over the millennia—Le Guin, Moorcock, Eddings, and so on. While all of these magi were able to stabilize the subject worlds for a time, the imbalance they initially cured later returned and with greater virulence. Another intervention was required, leading to another imbalance. Each time the imbalance would grow larger and larger until finally the world—poof—ceases to be. Magus Jordan spent his whole life and published fourteen volumes on the problem—three of which had to be issued posthumously.”

  “If it’s so hard, and people have failed so often, how are you able to fix these subworlds where they can’t?” Vivian asked.

  She had stopped walking, which was unfortunate because we were now standing directly in front of the SSB. All those dark, empty windows seemed to be staring down at me and judging. An uneasiness twisted at my insides. I tried to pull her further along the path, but she wouldn’t move. “Because,” I said quickly and in a low voice, “I don’t try and impose a solution from outside. Using the power available within the world, I create a safety valve that operates to release the pressure of an imbalance before it can grow too strong.”

  I was simplifying things enormously at this point, skipping over a lot of the messier bits of the magic and the social engineering needed to make my solution work, but I could feel a panic attack building. I wanted to be anywhere but here. Unfortunately, she was not taking my hints.

  “Tools?” she asked.

  “The people,” I said impatiently. “I use the people and the creatures of the world as a source of positive force. I create legends and histories so that they’ll know the signs of an oncoming imbalance and then my spell construct guides them, or at least a select group of them, to defuse the imbalance before it gets out of hand.” I tugged at her arm again. “Can we move on a bit? I’m . . . I’m getting a little cold.”

  “In a second,” she said sharply. “So, this works? You’ve actually observed the people in one of these worlds ‘fixing’ one of these ‘imbalances’?”

  There was something funny in her manner, like she was seeking a specific piece of information, but didn’t want me to know what it was. I let it pass. I needed to leave. In my mind’s eye I could see Gristle bursting out of the front door of the building to snatch me up.

  “Yes,” I answered in a hissing whisper. “But only the initial imbalance. It will take millennia of subworld time before another imbalance arises. Until then I can’t be certain of the ‘perpetual’ part of the spell.”

  At last I succeeded in moving her past the front of the building, but she stopped again as we reached the side door from which I had made my escape earlier that evening.

  “Show me,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Show me,” she said again, and pulled me toward the little door. “I want to see it . . . see where you work.”

  I shook her arm off mine and studied her as I would a subject of one of my experiments. Her face was flush, her eyes glinted and gleamed; her whole body seemed coiled with excitement. Then it struck me, this was what the entire evening had been leading up to for her. Maybe I was an extra credit project, or maybe this was all part of a seer study she needed to complete, but there was a purpose to her actions that went far beyond an acolyte looking for some extra tutoring.

  Noticing my hesitation, she came back to me and took my hand in hers. “Please.”

  I smiled at the smooth, soft, feminine hand in mine and made the decision to find out what it was she wanted before I sent her away. Besides, there would be no harm in letting her see the circle. It was a fairly standard magical construct.

  With an arched eyebrow, I raised the back of her fingers to my lips and gave them a light kiss. “Of course,.”

  I put my palm against the small of her back—that was nice—and directed her to the side door. The building was still deserted, but I wanted to give her a good show, so I made a little production of checking the corridors before each turn, and a larger production of ensuring that she remained as close to me as possible as we made our way down to the basement. When we arrived at the door to the closet all was as it had been. There was no Gristle waiting to ambush me, just the empty hall and the clock diligently counting down my return. I smiled at the irony.

  I pulled out my reality fold and reached inside for the closet key. As I groped about for it my hand brushed against the smooth steel of the battle-axe. A momentary shudder passed through my body that left my head spinning. I drew my hand back and frowned at the numbness in my fingertips. I had always put down my hatred for Death Slasher to its general creepiness, and to the fact that it was Morgarr’s weapon and had done untold evil, but it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps the root lay deeper than that. Doubt and his constant companion, fear, began to gnaw at me. Nothing that was happening right now was a good idea and in my heart I knew it. I needed to ditch Vivian and spend the rest of the night in consultation with Eldrin, trying to figure out how to rid myself once and for all of my experiment’s remainder: Death Slasher.

  I spun around to tell Vivian that, nice as it had been, the night was over. At the same moment she stepped in close behind me. We found ourselves in each other’s arms—her chest, her body, her warmth pressed against me, her lips mere inches away. I am ashamed to admit that all thoughts of the battle-axe vanished from my mind.

  A second passed, and then her eyes widened and she stepped back. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “It . . . it’s a little creepy down here.”

  I know it’s cliché and terribly archaic, but I’m afraid I said something like, “You have nothing to fear, Vivian. I’m here.”

  She arched an eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing. The fact that she didn’t call me on my bullshit right then and there should have been an enormous red flag, but I wasn’t thinking straight. It isn’t an excuse, but it is the truth.

  I unlocked the door and walked in. I was back, and being back brought all those fears to the surface again. Everything reminded me of my professional indiscretion, and that Gristle and the battle-axe and all the other complications in my real life were still waiting to be dealt with.

  “Well,” I said with a deep exhale, “this is where the magic happens.”

  It was an old joke and poorly delivered, but her response was still not what I expected: silence.

  Actually, it was worse than that. She ignored me. Vivian paced about the room and wordlessly studied the circle for a minute or so. I took the time to discreetly scrape the trash off the worktable and dump it in a bin.

  “I don’t get it,” she said at last. I’ll admit, I hadn’t been expecting that response either. “This is a simple transport circle,” she said, gesturing to the glowing ring. “Granted, it’s a lot more complicated than any transport circle I’ve ever seen, but how could it—”

  Seeing where she was going, and that it was so far off track, I couldn’t help interrupting. “No, no,” I snapped, as I would during office hours to some annoying underclassman. “The circle is just a circle. All the subworld manipulation has to be done in situ. That’s what makes my method fundamentally different. I don’t impose an external magical fram
ework onto the subworld.”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “If you aren’t using Mysterium magic, then how do you do anything?”

  It was a great question, better than she knew, but rather than give her the truth, which was messy and embarrassing, I simplified things. “I use the reality key.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “The key to the closet?”

  I shook my head and pulled the chain from around my neck. Though they are quite common in my area of study, for excellent reasons the existence of reality keys is not widely circulated. It is not that they are officially classified, but everyone in the field agrees that it is for the best to keep the majority of mages ignorant of them. Nevertheless, I found myself explaining the use of one to her like I might the beverage function of a microwave to my grandparents.

  “Every subworld has a reality matrix. If you know how, and the mages at Mysterium know how, you can imprint this matrix on an item. I can’t explain that part of the process. Eldrin could, but you would likely want to claw your eyes out by the time he was finished. Anyway, for some completely unknown reason, the reality matrices are mapped onto keys—one for each subworld. This is the one for Trelari, where I conducted my experiment.”

  She reached out her hand and held it just above the key’s surface—seeing if she could feel a radiant power field around it. I knew that she wouldn’t, but said nothing.

  “It doesn’t feel magical,” she said, staring at it like it was a cross between a pretty jewel and a venomous snake.

  “It isn’t,” I said. “Not here. Here it’s quite ordinary, but in my subworld it has the power to remap reality itself. There is nothing . . . well, almost nothing you can’t do with it when you are in the world.”

  “Nothing?” she said, and tore her gaze from the key to smile at me.

  That smile made me feel all those possibilities stirring again. “Nothing.” I left off the “almost” part this time.

  She trailed the end of her fingernail up my hand to my arm. “I’d like to see that. Take me.”