Changer (Athanor) (24 page)

Slowing, Lovern drives up the long, twisting gravel road to Arthur’s hacienda.  In his private calendar of events, the Mutiny had been the worst thing ever to happen to him.  Remembering it—and how he had survived it—he takes heart.  All things pass.  So it will be with these latest problems.  And, who knows?  He may come through this period of adversity stronger than before.

Not quite forty-eight hours after the accident, Eddie comes to clearheaded awareness and, when he does, his first bleary-eyed vision is of King Arthur waiting at his bedside.

“Ar…thur?” Eddie’s voice is hoarse.

“Yes, I’m here, Eddie.  Right next to your bed.”  Arthur says, setting aside his computer.  He pours half a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table.  “Take a sip of this.”

Eddie tries and sputters.  Although the hospital has him hooked to intravenous pain medication and liquids, his square-jawed face is pale and ravaged beneath his New Mexico tan.  The bandage on his forehead adds to the impression of weakness.

“Slowly, slowly, my friend.”  Arthur wipes Eddie’s lips and then holds the cup up again.  “Try now.  Slowly.”

This attempt is more successful.  Eddie swallows a small amount, then a bit more until the cup is emptied, leaving only the smallest trail down his beard-stubbled chin.

“More?” Arthur asks.

“Yes.”

After another cup, Eddie smiles.  “I… feel like I’ve been… hit by the Bull of Heaven.”

“Close,” Arthur says, setting down the cup and wiping Eddie’s chin.  “You ran your car into a concrete median divider off the Big-I.”

Eddie’s eyes widen in memory and fear.  “Was anyone… else badly hurt?”

“No.  Two or three other vehicles were wrecked.  Our insurance company is dealing with their insurance companies.”  Arthur’s rich baritone breaks.  “But that’s nothing.  You’re alive.  How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by the Bull.”

Both men laugh, Eddie wincing at the twinge from his broken ribs.

“What’s the prognosis, Arthur?”

“You’ll live, you’ll heal.  The doctors warned me there might be brain damage.  You hit your head hard enough to give you a concussion.  Assessing whether there was anything more serious was difficult until you came around—but now that we’re talking I think that brain damage can be dismissed.”

“I hope so.”

Eddie’s expression is grim and Arthur does not need to ask to know what he is recalling—the memory of one of their own who survived a fall that broke both his back and his skull to live as a shadow of himself for a decade longer.

“I know so,” Arthur says firmly.  “Broken ribs and right leg, enough bruises and scrapes to make even
you
proud.  You lost lots of blood, too.  The doctors were concerned because of how long you were unconscious.”

Arthur manages a small smile to conceal how concerned
he
had been.  “You came around, rather muzzy, several times, but went under again almost at once.”

“I don’t remember,” Eddie says as if confessing a fault.

“Don’t worry about it, Eddie.  Sleep heals.”

This platitude is truer for many of the athanor.  Excessive sleep can be the cost for more rapid than normal healing.

“Can I have some more water?”

Arthur again holds the cup for him.

“When can I go home?”

“Not today.  I’ll work on tomorrow.  I’ve been agitating for home care since you came in, and they seem quite willing to agree.”  Arthur’s expression becomes wry.  “Apparently insurance companies don’t like long stays in hospital.”

“Cheap bastards.”  Eddie grins, pleased that he will be able to return home.  Then the grin vanishes.  “I won’t be able to care for myself—not at first—and you and Vera can’t be spared, not with the Lustrum Review this month.  Maybe…”

“Peace.” Arthur holds up a hand.  “Your nurse would have come last night, but couldn’t get a plane seat.”

“Who?”

“Anson A. Kridd.”  Arthur can’t keep a certain resignation from his voice, but the joy that brightens Eddie’s pain-worn face is reason enough to accept the Spider in his house.

“Anson!  I knew he was coming for the Review, but this is great!  Still, he won’t be much help with administration.”

“Jonathan Wong has agreed to come early as well.”

“Good!”  Eddie smiles.  “I almost feel better about this.”

“Now that you are conscious,” Arthur says, “let us start the wheels of administration moving.  When the doctor makes his rounds I shall convince him that another twenty-four hours is all that is needed for observation.”

“Good.”  Eddie leans back against his pillows.  “And, as much as I hate to admit it, I could move if there was a marauding army approaching, but not for anything else.  My head is pounding and I can feel the ache in my leg even through the drugs.”

Arthur nods.  Eddie has moved—and been moved—with worse injuries, but then, as he had intimated, the only other choice had been death.  Without fear’s adrenaline charge to numb the pain, moving him could slow the healing process severely.

Eddie looks at Arthur.  Already he is drifting back to sleep, but proof that his mind has come through the incident undamaged is found in the sharpness of his gaze.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since soon after you came out of surgery.”

“That was how long?”

Arthur glances at his watch.  “About forty hours.”

Eddie’s eyes widen.  “And you’ve been here?”

“Of course.”  Arthur pats his shoulder.  “You needed to be watched over.  Vera can manage a few days without me.”

“But you must be exhausted!”

“The room is furnished with a nice recliner.  I take catnaps and catch up on work.  If you stay in here another day, I may even get to that correspondence backlog.”

“Arthur!”

“Rest, Eddie.  That’s the fastest way to get me to my work.”

“It’s not that!”

Arthur grins.  “I know, but don’t worry.  Modern technology is wonderful.  Between my computer, the modem, and a telephone, I’m unable to escape everything I left in my office.  Rest now.”

“I…”

“Rest.”

Eddie’s eyelids drift shut, though not without some protest on their owner’s part.  Watching him, Arthur realizes that he has lost count of the times that one has watched over the other.  So many lifetimes, so many wars, so many assassins, so many just plain accidents.

He wonders which one of them will hold the final vigil or if some merciful power will make it possible for them to die within the same breath.  The thought is not a new one, nor is his belief that their deaths will be far from painless.

10 

Ewig ist ein langer Kauf.
(Forever is a long bargain.)

—German proverb

“I
’ve spoken with the King and he has agreed,” Lovern says, thus beginning his meeting with the Changer.  

They were heading to the airport to pick up Anson.  Vera had planned on going alone, but the Changer had refused to let her do so, pointing out that Eddie had been attacked while driving.

“So they can pick us both off in one blow?” she had responded tartly.

“I am harder to kill than that,” the Changer says.  “At least I dearly hope so.  In any case, the wizard wishes to confer with me.  If he comes along, I believe we can impose on him for a ward of some sort…”

Lovern had agreed and so the three of them—or four, since the Changer’s daughter sits between her father’s feet—ease through traffic toward the Albuquerque International Airport.  The Changer sits in the backseat; Vera drives with Lovern in the passenger seat beside her.

“What has the King given you permission to do?” the Changer asks.  “And why should knowing that he has given his permission sway my views one way or another?”

“Well…”  Lovern stops, irritated with himself.  He is so accustomed to backing his own desires with the authority of another that he has overlooked the Changer’s own likely reaction to such a statement.  Also, with that irritating honesty he seems to be bringing to all of his self-assessments, he admits that the ancient makes him nervous.

“Let me begin again,” Lovern says, stroking his beard.  “Given the current situation—the attacks on three residents of Arthur’s hacienda, the murder of your family…”

“I know the situation,” the Changer interrupts.  “What do you want of me?”

“I want you to come with me when I go to retrieve a potent piece of sorcerous equipment from where I have hidden it.”

“Why me?”

“I have hidden it where few others could go.”

“Oh?  Couldn’t another sorcerer go there?  Or couldn’t you cast a spell to enable another to journey with you?”

“No.  Yes.  I…” Lovern stops, realizing that the Changer is baiting him.  The yellow-eyed ancient leans back in the bucket seat and lifts his daughter onto his lap so that she can see out the window.

“Pray, continue.”

“I’ve hidden something under the sea,” Lovern says bluntly.  “Your brother and I are not on the best terms.  Previously, when I have visited my item I have done so astrally; thus, there has been no need to trouble Duppy Jonah.  This time, since I need to physically remove it, I will need to deal with the Sea King.”

“And when you first hid it?”

“I did so without his permission.  Thus, the ill will.”

“Unwise.”

“I know so now.  I had not realized that he could hold a grudge for so long.  Then, however, we had been on opposite sides during a then-recent conflict.”

“Ragnarokk.”

“Well…  Yes.”

“I see.  Legend speaks of Mimir’s Head being kept in a well.  There is often a small amount of truth in such tales.  A sea could be said to be the bottom of all wells.”

Vera clears her throat.  “Gentlemen, we’re just about to the airport.  Do you want to continue talking while I collect Anson?  I don’t think I’ll be in any danger.  Security at these places is pretty formidable.”

“I shall defer to the sorcerer in this matter.”

“Vera, if you don’t mind…”

“I’ll go,” she says.  “Lovern, drive the van down to the baggage-claim level.  We’ll come out there.”

“And if the plane is late?” the Changer asks.

The warrior maid taps her cell phone.  “I’ll call if it is.”

As soon as Vera is gone, Lovern resumes the discussion where they had left off.  “Yes, I’ve hidden Mimir’s head in a well.  It’s safe there and, more to the point, so am I.  When you create something closely tied to your own essence, it can endanger you.”

“Nimue must have wanted to know its location very badly,” the Changer says.  “I congratulate you on your fortitude.”

Uncertain whether he has just been subtly insulted by the reminder of his captivity or truly complimented, Lovern chooses not to respond: “Will you accompany me?”

“And negotiate with the Sea King, my brother?”

“Yes.  And help if our enemies attempt to prevent me.”

“I dislike the concept of the Head, Lovern.  I have since you created it.”

“It has permitted me to do great services for the athanor.”