Wild card segment 16

Sorry for the two week delay; I've been down with Covid. Getting back to writing now that I can breathe and focus again.

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"Vanion, you're forgetting something: I can't afford to tell a lie." Admittedly, it was something I hadn't given much consideration before, but of course having a cover story would carry the expectation of me speaking to corroborate it. And my geas 'Let no lie pass my tongue' expressly forbids me from using any form of communication to directly lie, even writing or sign language. "Even considering it is sending warnings off for me."

"That... is unfortunate." Vanion sounds like he means it, at least inasmuch as I can discern over the sound of horse, bridle, saddle, spurs, and armor. We've been traveling for a week now, and sleeping in a tent is somehow even worse than I remember. Then again, my most recent tent experience is Mojave desert camping, which is considerably fewer bugs and hotter.

"It's probably just as well, I don't know the Tamul language, and I can't fake it with the Tongues spell if nobody else around here speaks it either."

Vanion looks at me a moment, then says, "There is another option."

"I'm listening."

"Stop using your Tongues spell entirely." Vanion scratches his chin, thinking. "It makes communicating with you... challenging, if you can't speak Elenic, but we can arrange some signals."

"Such as?" The idea has some merit; I can see this maybe working.

"We set up some basic gestures. You won't even need to know the story we cook up, since there won't really be anyone who can translate for us."

"Folks here have a very casual relationship with the truth, don't they?" I observe.

"When morality hesitates, necessity takes charge, Anthon. I can assure you that you would not wish for the Church to know about your magic, especially not if Annias takes the Archprelate's throne."

"There's another option," I say. "We go back to the route of me being an animal of some kind."

"This animal business again," he said, shaking his head.

"It's anonymous. Nobody expects me to say anything. There's no question of 'hey, who's that guy and why did you bring him'. At most, someone says, 'hey, nice dog' and that's typically the end of it."

"Until they start asking where you came from and how much I'll charge them to have you cover a bitch in their kennel," Vanion says with a snort.

It takes me several seconds to parse that statement before the horror of it settles in. "... Loki, I hate it here, and I want to go home. Why are we doing this again?""

"Because Sparhawk sent a message through intermediaries and I need to discuss the matter with Dolmant. We'll be reaching Demos tomorrow, probably around noon, unless we're slowed by something."

"You said he might not be there," I point out. "And we'd then be going to Chyrellos."

"That's an accurate summation, yes." I'm starting to feel like Vanion is losing patience with me.

"I have to operate within my restrictions," I say as calmly as I can manage. "I'm not trying to make things difficult - but the fact remains that because of my restrictions, things are going to be difficult and the risk is too high to just wing it and not expect something disastrous to happen. Are we in agreement on this?"

"Assuming I am correctly guessing the term 'wing it' then, yes. We're in agreement."

"You think I can get away with being a mute. I think being some kind of an animal would be less conspicuous. There's one elephant in the room, and that's the fact that we already know your chapterhouse outside Cimmura is under observation and I've been observed leaving with you."

"... What's an elephant?" he asks after a moment.

"A very large animal, weighs multiple tons, has a long, powerful nose that can coil and grip, long tusks, wide flappy ears. The idiom is talking about the absurdity that a very large, very powerful animal in a room might be easier to pretend it's not actually there, but that doesn't change the fact that the animal IS in fact there and may become a problem very soon."

"Then what do you suggest?" Vanion asks tiredly.

"..." I've made several suggestions, but realistically, I don't like any of them. The fact we were under observation when we left, I've been using Phantom Steed, there's probably no concealing I'm a strange magic user. The first step to addressing a problem is to acknowledge the existence of as much of the problem as possible."

"Is there a point to this? Elenes are fond of logic, but not pointlessly talking in circles."

"We can't pretend I'm not here; they saw me leave. We can't pretend I'm not a magic user, I rode out of the chapterhouse on Phantom Steed. So we lean into it. Don't explain anything. I'm along for the ride, we ignore any questions. And we keep my shape changing out of sight. I can join you in your closed door meetings as a mouse in your pocket."

"There's still the matter of how you get in that pocket," Vanion says.

"I shapechange in my room, or whatever quarters I'm assigned. Sneak out as something small, meet up with you elsewhere."

"The hazard of being small is being easily stepped on," he points out.

"You have any better ideas?" I ask.

"No. For now, it'll have to do."

The last day of travel takes a bit longer than expected, largely because of a rather steady spring rain that begins before sunup and continues more or less unabated all day. My skill with Shape Water is insufficient to do more than part the rain around us as we go, and Vanion tells me to stop bothering, since us arriving in Demos looking like anything other than drowned rats in the middle of spring showers invites uncomfortable questions.

The city remains mostly obscured by the rain until we're only a mile away. My traveling cloak is soaked through, as is my Styric smock, and even though the Phantom Steed is supernaturally comfortable to ride, I'm developing chafing on my inner thighs from the wet material. I was never one to ride motorcycles and I stopped riding a bicycle two decades ago, so on top of the chafing, I have muscles screaming at me for my use and abuse of them in ways they aren't accustomed to being used. Still, I don't want to look like a wuss in front of the knights. I do my best to act like nothing is wrong, and as we all dismount, I only wince a little.

Demos is somewhat smaller than Cimmura. The outer walls of the city are fairly old but well maintained, with fresh stonework in some sections and scaffolding on others where work is still in progress. At the moment, nobody is actively working on the wall, which I can't be surprised by what with all the rain. Likely, they're doing maintainence on segments that have taken damage from freeze and thaw over the winter. The city gates are open, with guards in the gatehouse watching us as we approach. They don't look happy to see us, but if I was in their position, I'd probably feel the same.

"State your names and business," the man says to Vanion while taking special pains to aim a gimlet eye at me and especially my Phantom Steed.

"Preceptor Vanion of the Order of Pandion Knights, and my entourage. Our business is Church business."

The guard looks uncertain, then eyes me again. "He doesn't look like a Pandion Knight," he says. "Doesn't look like a Styric, neither."

"He's part of our business here. Do you bar the way of the Church Knights?"

The man pauses, looking at me carefully, like he's trying to memorize my face. "... No. Sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord."

We enter the city, following Vanion's lead. The horses get stabled at a professional hostler just inside the walls. The stables themselves are huge, with about two dozen open horse stalls and a large barn in which more animals are housed.

Unsurprisingly, with the rain, the streets are all but abandoned, save for a handful of indigents huddled in stoops or under eaves, taking inadequate shelter from the rain. Seeing this kind of misery out in the open bothers me. "Vanion," I say quietly, "Nobody who has a place to go sits on the street in the rain. Isn't there any sort of support or aid for the homeless here?"

"The Church typically handles charity for those whose need is great," he answers, barely giving them a glance.

"Could I at least give them some food?"

"You may when our business in the city is finished, if you still feel the need," he replies. "We'll be leaving by the north gate again to rest at the Motherhouse tonight."

I hum to myself. "Yeah, about that. I've been meaning to ask, the motherhouse is the center of your order, right?"

"That's correct."

"And you said that's here in Demos, right?"

"Yes. Now ask your real question."

I chuckle. "Sorry. Do you maintain an office in the other chapterhouses like the one in Cimmura? Or is that one special?"

"I spend most of my actual time for the Order in the Cimmura chapterhouse. Cimmura is the capital of Elenia and the center of its politics. The Champion of the Crown would ordinarily run that chapterhouse while I ran the Order, but until recently, Sparhawk was in exile to Rendor."

"The place with the Eshandists, right?"

He nods. "The heretics, yes."

I don't like the implications of that word; 'heretic' is the sort of word used by religious fanatics looking to kill in the name of their religion and just about anyone in the post nine eleven United States generally takes a dim view of such things. But I don't let that distract me right now. "What's going on with that? Why was the Champion exiled?"

"Ask me again when we reach the Motherhouse. We're almost at our destination." He pauses, then adds, "When we have the privacy for it, Dolmant will be informed of your magic. He's trustworthy and isn't inclined to let it slip to the Assembly."

I shrug, resigned. "Your call; I'm entirely at your mercy." Unspoken is my fervent hope that both his judgment and empathy are sufficient to my survival.

We continue through the winding, unplanned city streets to stop a few minutes later in front of a moderately sized and artfully constructed cathedral; stained glass adorns the windows, with a pair of marble sculptures at the corners of the building. Despite this architectural nod to grandiosity, it reminds me more of a cross between a modest Catholic church and a simpler protestant chapel. I briefly consider asking who the statues represent, but decide against it. That could be construed as an interest in the religion as a whole, and I have no intentions of inviting attempts to convert me.

I look at this church and think back to the homeless people I saw on the way in. And I say nothing. It's not like I can really afford to criticize; hundreds of institutions in my home country alone spoke charity while counting profits and ignoring need. And yet, the knowledge that human institutions remain... depressingly human, is still an unwelcome knowledge.

Vanion leads us up the wide walkway to the double doors and clacks the door knocker twice. It's only about fifteen seconds before a short man in a plain brown friar's cassock, perhaps thirty, opens the doors from the inside. "The House of God welcomes all suppli- oh! Lord Vanion, we hadn't expected you." His eyes flick to me momentarily, and he clears his throat. "I trust the Order is right where I left it?"

"Our brothers come and go as God asks us to, but the Order is as unchanging as the stones of the Motherhouse," Vanion replies with a grin. "Brother Cadmus, it's good to see you. But we are pressed for time. We carry an urgent message for the Patriarch of Demos, one that bears discussion. Is he available or has he returned to Chyrellos?"

"Patriarch Dolmant is attending to paperwork at the moment, I'm certain he will be able to spare the time to meet with you."

"Be eager to, more like," Vanion says wryly. "The sooner, the better."

"I'll see to it he is ready to receive you at the first opportunity," Cadmus reassures him. "By your leave?"

Vanion favors Cadmus with a small nod. "Of course."

The eleven of us follow him inside.

The interior of the church is almost jarringly familiar; anyone who's been inside a smaller Catholic church would recognize the layout, right down to the existence of a narthex at the entrance. The iconography seems to lean heavily towards what in Catholicism would be saints, but where the cross would feature prominently, the Elenic church has a similar yet equally ominous parallel to the preferred form of Roman execution: a sheathed sword, point downward.

I can't decide if the symbology that matters is the sword, or the fact that it's apparently peacebound, given the very prominent and brightly colored cloth that is run through eyelets to either side of the scabbard and tied both beneath and above the guard. Either one is more than a little concerning, really, because the implicit threat of violence in their symbology still remains - a sword is a sword, a tool expressly and uniquely designed for the purpose of killing other people. Not hunting, not harvesting, not the shaping of wood, measuring of cord, or cutting of cloth. Solely for human on human violence.

In its own way, it's every bit as worrying as a religion that sanctifies cannibalism.

"Bannon," Vanion says, and the young knight stands straighter. "Lead the novitiates in prayer, if you please. Atris, Typhus, stand guard out front. Until I or Patriarch Dolmant say otherwise, or until we leave, any off hours parishioners or supplicants are to be delayed at the door. Turn them away forcefully if they become too insistent."

"Understood, Lord Vanion," Typhus and Atris say together. Huh. Typhus usually whispers his spells and hasn't said anything much while I've been able to hear him. He has a surprisingly solid baritone; I wonder if he sings. I haven't done much singing in some years now, and I'd like having someone help me get back in tune and breath.

Something to look into later, I suppose.

Sir Bannon leads the novitiates into the sanctuary, while I follow Vanion into a side door on the right in the narthex.

"Dolmant being here is a stroke of luck. We can talk to him without the issue of other Patriarchs being present, even those from his faction in the Hierarchy. There won't be a need for mouse in the pocket tonight."

"I'll count that as a relief," I respond.

This door leads down a long hallway with at least a dozen other doors. The hallway has several monastic looking men moving about from one place to another, most of whom look first at me in confusion, then with reservedly curious glances at Vanion. Vanion moves with purpose, and nobody stops us. We come to a halt at the last door on the left. "Dolmant is a good man and a former Pandion Knight. We're lucky we caught him here; the last few years, he's been spending an increasing amount of time in Chyrellos taking up the duties that Archprelate Cluvonus is no longer able to attend to, a burden that's been increasing year by year."

"Oh?"

"The Archprelate is eighty-five, and sleeps most of the time."

I frown. "Why doesn't he retire?"

"Archprelate is a lifetime position in the Church."

"Sounds like the Pope or the Supreme Court back home, although they can voluntarily retire," I muse thoughtfully.

"Matters are different here. It might be theoretically possible to retire, but no Archprelate has ever done it, and the prevailing philosophy is that to do so would probably be an offense to God, telling Him that we're done instead of Him deciding."

"Grim philosophy," I comment.

"The Church can be like that sometimes," Vanion admits.

Vanion knocks on the door firmly, three measured beats. From inside, a tenor voice replies, "Come in." We enter the office.

If Vanion's office was a study in subtle comfort, Dolmant's is more elegant. A fine dark hardwood desk, polished and with almost no wear to it, is at the center of the room, with three polished wooden chairs on our side of it, and a visibly larger and padded one that Dolmant currently occupies. To the right of the desk, a fireplace sits shielded with a sheet of chainmail, chest height, and with a low fire burning in it. The floor is carpeted in a much softer carpet than the one Vanion has; even through my sandals, I can feel my feet sinking into it slightly.

Patriarch Dolmant is perhaps sixty, with a full head of silvery hair - damn my genetic disposition for male pattern baldness! - and a black cassock, clean and neatly worn with no adornments. His face is almost as sharp as his eyes. He looks like he forgets meals as often as he remembers them and works through their lack with an energy born of zeal. "Vanion. It's good to see you. Please, take a seat, both of you." He gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk, eyeing me briefly, then looks back at Vanion. "I take it things have gone awry?"

"Somewhat," Vanion replies, pulling a rolled up missive from the inside of his tabard, somewhat flattened and a little dogeared around the corners. "Sparhawk sent a letter regarding their progress; church knights are apparently being controlled by a creature of Azash."

"A grave accusation," Dolmant says with a scowl. "All of them, or simply the group Sparhawk encountered?"

"For the moment, only those pressing Sparhawk. There is more." Vanion looks at me. "This is Anthon."

"A Styric expert in the specific creature, I assume?" Dolmant says, then examines me more closely. "Or not? He does not look Styric, now that I take a better look at him. Not Elenian, either. Does he speak Elenic?"

"Not exactly," I reply, "Although a few more weeks and I should be able to get by without the use of magic to translate. And no, I'm not an expert."

"Who are you, then?"

Vanion speaks up. "I'm sure you heard of the incident in the capital last month."

"Understatement, Vanion?" Dolmant says with a crooked half smile. "Cimmura has been like an uprooted anthill. A third of the council thinks it was the Pandions, another third the Styrics, and the last third convinced the sky is falling." He snorts. "Rocks falling from the sky - how would the rocks have even gotten there?"

I clear my throat. "I could tell you, but it involves much more astronomy and physics than I suspect we have time for," I say diffidently.

"Stargazing and what? That last word didn't translate."

"Never mind, then. NO good translation for it in Elenic," I answer. "The important thing is that... yes, it's possible for rocks to fall from the sky, and because of how high up they start, they fall very, VERY fast. Fast enough to light the air around them on fire as they fall."

Both Vanion and Dolmant look disturbed by this information. "... As it happens, Anthon did, in fact, fall from the sky," Vanion finally says. "And whatever force sent him here, bound him also to Sparhawk's service for one year."

"Bound him to Sparhawk's service?" Dolmant responds, confused. "That's a dreadfully specific choice of masters. And when you say bound...?"

"I am magically compelled with a series of limitations to follow Sparhawk's orders," I answer. "His last direct order to me was to treat Vanion's orders as Sparhawk's own."

"I see." Dolmant looks at Vanion. "I served under you for years before I took on the cloth. You're building to something."

"As things stand right now, Anthon is serving as a backup plan - should their quest yield no fruits, Anthon is going to attempt to heal the Queen himself." Vanion sighs. "And then, Anthon will do what he can to prepare us for war with Zemoch."

"I'll what, now?" I blurt, staring at Vanion. "Wait, Zemoch? The nation with all the monsters?"

"You've already successfully taught several of us some of your magic," Vanion points out. "We're capable of learning it."

"That does bring up a concern," Dolmant points out. "To learn his magic, you have to contact his god-"

"No. His magic doesn't work like Styric magic." Vanion takes the letter from Sparhawk, and focuses on it. It begins folding itself into shapes at Vanion's direction while he holds it in the palm of his hand. "No contact with or pleading to the Younger Gods. Simply directing the energy around us into the design that his... formulas... paint."

"This could be a very useful tool for the Church," Dolmant notes. "There has long been a great many misgivings about the prudence of giving over the Church Knights to Styric mystics for their instruction."

"I can't say that's entirely wise," Vanion disagrees. "Anthon's magic is powerful and versatile... but not as flexible as the Secrets of Styricum. What's more, the amount of time it takes to reach the level of power he has seems to be quite daunting. Anthon, what did you say the training looked to be like?"

"To fully master a spell? Close to a year if doing it more or less full time."

Dolmant grunts. "That IS less than optimal. For only a single spell?"

"Eight hours per day, no days off," I confirm. "At my best estimate, ten or eleven months."

"A Pandion's training in the secrets is only two years."

"And that's the real problem," Vanion confirms. "Acquiring a handful of spells fully mastered would take far longer to train up, even were they to neglect all other aspects of knighthood to do it."

"So, not at all a replacement for the Secrets." Dolmant sighs. "Well, it may still be a useful exercise to have a few of the less martially adept knights begin training full time to become special resources."

"Perhaps." Vanion looks at me. "And he himself is no master of most of his spells."

"I haven't actually mastered ANY of my spells," I counter, "not to the degree I'm talking about here. I chose Alter Object to teach you because it was the closest I have to doing so- and I'm still at least seven dedicated months away from achieving that sort of mastery if I did literally no other training."

"What are you working on now?" Vanion asks curiously. "I forget."

"At the moment, Druidism, Upgrade, Vigor, Warding Gesture, and Brew," I reply.

"Brew?" asks Dolmant, looking startled. "You can... make magical beer?"

"I... hadn't actually considered that, but no. More like a tea, an elixir that heals wounds. Effective even for mortal wounds so long as they have breath or heartbeat in them still when it crosses their lips. Brew isn't as advanced as Alter Object yet, but even as it is now, I have the option to infuse other effects, other spells into it. Druidism allows me to grow more effective herbs, Upgrade increases their potency as I Brew, Vigor and Warding Gesture to refresh the energy and increase the protection of the one who drinks it."

Dolmant looks at me for several long seconds. "Quite a miraculous set of abilities you have." His expression becomes more grave. "Are you certain you have the ability to heal the Queen?"

"If not now, then eventually, yes," I answer. "One of my spells is specifically designed to be able to target both poisons and diseases inside a human body without harming them, burning away the impurities. There's no reason I can't include its effects in a brew, of course, but..." I trail off with a shrug.

Dolmant watches me for a few seconds, then nods. "Fortuitous." He looks over at Vanion. "Am I correct in assuming you wish to leave Anthon in my care, then? Perhaps in a small monastary somewhere away from Annias and his patsies until such time as he is needed?"

Wait, what? "Wait, what?"

"Actually, I have a different but related idea," Vanion replies. "Anthon has amongst his spells one that allows him to change his shape into a wide variety of things or people. Having him teach my Knights should have given him enough familiarity to learn the mannerisms and appearance of them; all three of them are aware of this plan and have agreed to the possibility of serving as a decoy."

"Hold on. I still can't lie, Vanion - and I still don't know how to ride a horse, certainly not well enough to impersonate one of your knights, or even a novitiate."

"Not even if ordered to?" Vanion stares at me pointedly.

"I can't be ordered into breaking my geasa."

Vanion sighs. "Then I have exactly one other idea."

"Go on." At this point, I'm fairly skeptical.

"Tonight, under cover of darkness, you change into something, like a bird, and make your way back to the chapterhouse at Cimmura at your fastest possible speed. I don't care what you become, so long as you get back there before morning. Are you capable of doing that?"

I stare at him blankly. "Back at Cimmura."

"Yes."

"Which is... a week and a half of hard ride from here."

"By horse, yes, but you have your magic. If you had free rein with your spells to use as needed, could you cover that distance in one night?"

"I... maybe?" I start tackling the problem in my head. "I certainly can't do it flying; I've never learned to fly as a bird. As a dog... hm."

"Back to dogs again!" Vanion complains, although I can hear the humor in his voice.

"Dogs are amazing animals," I say defensively. "A Siberian Husky in good physical condition can cover upwards of a hundred miles in twelve hours running through snow. They're a breed meant to pull sleds for long distances in frankly appalling weather conditions." I think for a moment. "Actually... if I used Phantom Steed, I might be able to make the trip in... four and a half hours?"

Vanion and Dolmant look at me in consternation. "That's a hundred leagues, straight line," Dolmant responds in a strangled tone.

"Anthon, the entire purpose is to be disguised," Vanion points out. "No Phantom Steed. Can you do it as one of your dogs?"

"It'll be a miserable experience, but in theory, yes." I shrug helplessly. "If I cast Haste every thirty or so seconds, Longstrider every five minutes, with Toughness on myself every twelve minutes, and Vigor on myself every hour, I can theoretically travel the distance in something like eight hours, assuming I don't stumble and break my neck in the dark, get lost, or lose focus on my magic during the mad scramble and-" I stop, thinking. "Alternately, I could spend some of that time teleporting instead with Blink? Four hundred feet per cast, thirteen casts for just under a mile... I can't do the whole distance with Blink alone; I'd have to cast it almost four thousand times, and it's limited to line of sight, so anything involving underbrush, or... But if I make myself an Albatross, I could learn to glide quickly enough and just use Blink for altitude, except Albatross don't glide especially fast even if they can do it for half a day or more at a time..." I find myself drifting into a mumble.

"To the hells with it all," Vanion snaps angrily. "Turn into a mouse; you're going in my pocket."

I change into a mouse. It's almost reflexive, and before I even have a chance to really think about what just happened, I find myself scooped up in Vanion's hand and stuffed into his surcoat pocket.

Bastard. If he wasn't wearing heavy leather gloves, I'd bite him.

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