Sable Palace/Schloss Wardenburg
2nd May SY154
Why do my friends and relatives insist on calling me at three in the morning? Admittedly, this time I appreciated the disturbance, but for the most part, it was beginning to get tedious.
I had been having one of my periodic nightmares about immolation, and to be dragged back out of it to consciousness was almost a relief, although I'll admit that I didn't feel my best. My heart was racing and I was short of breath, but I put it down to the after-effects of the nightmare, and did my best to ignore it. I pulled myself wearily out of bed, wrapped a robe around myself, and opened up to the call.
Obviously, wherever Andrew was – I think I'd heard Gray mention that he was currently on Keragorn, out in Veil Ten, marking relative troop positions for the Treaty boundaries – time was running different, as he was fully clothed and wide awake.
"Andrew?"
"Robert. You are not going to believe this."
"That depends what it is."
"Bloody Rupert is currently sitting on the floor of my command tent, and I think he's about to pass out. Do you want him, or shall I just slit his throat and have done with it?"
His expression looked innocent enough as he said it, but his eyes told a different story.
"What happened?"
"He came to me and demanded to be taken to Prime. I obliged, but then he proceeded to pronounce what as far as I could tell, given the power behind it, was a Death Curse on Andreas and all his works."
"Prime is the Machine Homeworld, isn't it?"
"Correct."
"Oh that's not good," I said.
"Y'a think?...It seemed to have an interesting effect, though. Drones were dropping like flies around us for the minute or so we stayed there before beating a hasty retreat."
"And no doubt when Andreas figures out what happened, and who did it...which he will...he's going to be after you and Rupert so hard it isn't true."
"Don't think I'm unaware of that. If I'd known what he was planning to do I would have stuck with my original instinct to shoot him the moment he Trumped me. The man is suicidal, as well as being a murdering bastard."
"Give me a few moments and then pass him through."
I put the link on hold, conjured up some clothes, and then teleported to the infirmary, before activating the contact once more.
"You'd better hurry up," Andrew said, mildly, "he's turning grey and I'd rather not have to scrape his mangy carcass off my floor. Not least because having to explain why the RFSS died in a Sable command centre might prove delicate under the new environment of peace and co-operation you and Wilhelm have decreed for us."
"Go ahead."
Through the link I saw him haul my semi-conscious brother to his feet, and with about as much ceremony as lugging a sack of potatoes, he shoved him through the Trump contact. Rupert stumbled as he came through, and collapsed to the ground the moment he was in Sable, at which point, Andrew broke the contact.
"Christ, Rupert," I said as much to myself as to him, "what the Hell have you done...?"
But he didn't answer. Instead, his heart chose that moment to give up the ghost, and within seconds he was in the throes of an honest to God, full-blown coronary, there on the infirmary floor. My first reaction was shock: I hadn't realised that it was even possible for someone like us to go into cardiac arrest. My second was pain, as I was suddenly hit hard by the secondary effects of what he was experiencing down the link we share...which probably explained the nightmare earlier, and my reaction to it, as well. And my third was to snap into doctor mode to try to save his life.
I had begun administering CPR, without immediate effect, when I heard a movement over by the door, and a very bleary eyed Claire came in. I cursed inwardly, knowing that much as I love her, she was exactly the last person I wanted right there right then.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"Little busy right now..." I said, between breaths, "but don't worry, I'm dealing with it."
"The Logrus told me that one of the Pantheon needed a healer. I..."
And then she saw which of the Pantheon it was.
"No...No way," she protested.
"Please, Claire. Walk away. I can deal with it."
"Unfortunately," came another voice, that I recognised as Roland's, although where the Hell he'd sprung from, I had no idea, "she's the Goddess of Healing. She doesn't have a choice."
"Then give her a choice..." I snarled, as I cast a defib spell at my brother, then checked his pulse. Still nothing. Out of desperation, I hit him with a coat rack spell, not expecting it to take, but trying it anyway, and was very surprised when he froze. He had absolutely no magical defences at all, and I could think of no reason why that would be a good state for the Aurellian God of Protection to be in. The only good thing, was that at least he wouldn't deteriorate while I sorted this out.
I hauled myself to my feet and looked at them.
"I need for both of you to get out of here now," I said, quietly, "Claire, I know you don't want to be here, and I'm sure the Logrus will understand..."
"Umm...actually..." Roland said, a little hesitantly, "...not so much. It will make her use her aspect because it needs all of the gods in its Pantheon."
"I can't do it...she said, almost sobbing...I won't...not him."
"So you'd let him die?" Roland answered.
"Yes...no...no, I can't let him die...but then, he wouldn't die anyway, would he? He'd just go off and regenerate..."
I'd never felt her so upset and conflicted, and crossed to her, putting my arms around her. The moment I did, she burst into tears and began sobbing uncontrollably. I stroked her hair and kissed her repeatedly on the forehead, trying to calm her, but it didn't do any good, and when I looked at my brother-in-law, I suspect I didn't appear particularly hospitable.
"Make it give her a choice, Roland," I said to him, levelly.
"Much as I'd like to, I can't," he replied.
"Then I'm going to have to," I snapped, and brought up the heftiest sleep spell I could wield. I cast it on Claire and caught her as she fell.
"It'll wake her up again."
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Then you take her to a slow time Shadow, and wait with her until I call you."
"Robert, are you okay?" he asked, quietly, concern in his tone, "you look very grey around the gills yourself."
"I'll be fine once he isn't dying on my floor any more," I answered, testily, "now please, just go."
His eyes met mine, and for a moment I thought he was going to argue. But then he nodded, and indicated for me to give her into his charge. I did so, and then he concentrated and was gone in a flash of Logrus. I breathed a sigh of relief then looked back at the suspended body of my brother. I picked him up and put him on one of the beds, and was pleased that the coat-rack still seemed to be holding. At least that gave me the opportunity to pre-prepare a suite of spells which might help me save his life. It took about fifteen minutes until I was satisfied with my preparations, after which I knelt back then I released the stasis. And then, using a combination of shape shifting and magic I did what I could.
I had to restart his heart twice, in the end, but finally, after one of the most tense forty-five minutes of my life, I had him stabilised.
But what the Hell was I going to do now? I was pretty sure he wasn't going to die on me now, but as I'd worked on him I had become increasingly concerned that neither his magical defences, nor his own shifting were reacting in any way to what I was doing, and I was worried that he'd slipped from unconscious to comatose. And when I was trying to force his heart to heal, I also hadn't failed to notice the fact that the damned fool had residual traces of what felt like shift-resistant cocaine in his bloodstream. Hadn't he learned his lesson the last time?
And then there was also the issue of the lingering resonances of a very recent, very black ritual, which under Sable Law, I was obliged to report to the SMOC. There was a big difference between him stating an intention, as he had the previous afternoon, and showing up tainted with the evidence of his crimes here on Sable soil. However, the political ramifications of the SMOC arresting the RFSS, especially as his own ReichsMagieren had always stopped short of doing so on Reich soil, just didn't bear contemplating. About the only option I had to avoid that was to remove him from Sable at the first opportunity, and hope that Claire hadn't realised what he'd been up to when she had come in.
I debated taking him to his personal Maui, but discounted the idea when I remembered that he usually kept the place locked down and on slow time when he wasn't using it. Which rather left repatriating him back to the Reich, and the potential problems that would cause.
I checked through the pockets of his trousers – his dress uniform shirt having met its end when I had ripped it to get to his chest to perform CPR - but unfortunately there was no sign of set of Trumps. Of course, he didn't need a physical deck to make a call, but just then, that little fact was far from convenient. I did have Silke's card in my own collection, but given her change of circumstances, I wasn't sure that she would be the best option. I also knew the Jorge von Klieburg, who would have been my other choice, was still recovering from the injuries he had received on Cavazza, so dumping Rupert on him in this state wasn't practical. Which meant I was going to have to make something up as I went along.
I pondered the options for a couple of minutes, and finally came to the conclusion that the person I was most likely to be able to do a Trump of on the spot was Rikart Schultz. His constant presence at Rupert's side on the first of the month meant that I'd actually spent quite a lot of time with him, and I'd come to realise that he was solid, trustworthy and discreet. At least as far as someone with his background could be. If only Rupert hadn't corrupted him by making him a Knight...
I crossed to Malcolm's office, purloined some paper and a pencil, then returned to my patient's bedside and started to sketch. About twenty minutes later, I had a likeness which was about as close as I was going to get it without Schultz actually sitting for me. Moreover, when I concentrated on it, the sketch went cold, indicating that it was connected to someone. Hopefully the right someone. So I bent my mind to it and gave him a call. There was a brief delay, but eventually the contact was made. However, when he opened up he looked haggard.
"Your Majesty..." he answered, and there was a haunted expression in his eyes, "this isn't a great time."
"I can guess," I answered, "but I may be able to help you. You've lost track of someone...?"
He looked at me then nodded.
"He's with me, but he's in a very bad way," I replied, and handed him my Trump, "go somewhere where you can arrange some decent, private medical attention and call me back."
"Of course," he replied, and without arguing, he dropped the contact. If nothing else, the lad knew when to follow orders. Either that, or he was arranging a surprise party for me that I wasn't going to like.
Five minutes passed. Ten. And by then I was pacing round the infirmary, hoping to Hell that I hadn't miscalculated. But eventually, after about fifteen minutes, I felt the stirring of a Trump call. I opened up to it immediately, to see him at the other end of the link.
"Forgive the delay, Your Majesty," he said, quietly, "finding the right location was...tricky."
"I understand," I replied, "let me bring him through."
I established control over the link, and widened it somewhat, then moved over to my charge and after whispering a prayer to the Almighty that I wasn't about to commit suicide, I pushed the bed my brother was lying on through the contact, IV drips and all. The link broke, and I glanced around. It wasn't a medical facility, or any kind of institutional location. In fact, it looked more like a set of quarters in a private Schloss. Which of course it might well have been. The only place I was sure it wasn't, was the Wewelsburg, which caused me to breathe a sigh of relief. As I took in my surroundings, I noted that Dominik Gerlinde was there, as well as Schultz. They both looked exhausted, and they both bore the same taint that Rupert did.
"Perhaps an explanation is in order, Robert of Sable," the Head of the Forstapo said, as he started checking the patient's vital signs and adjusting the drips, and I remembered that my brother had mentioned that Gerlinde had been his doctor after Andrew had tried to kill him. Moreover, while I dislike the man and everything he stands for, would be very hard pushed to think of anyone who was more unsuitable to be a physician, and trust him about as far as I could spit him, I was aware that Rupert's view of him was rather more positive.
"In both directions, Obergruppenführer Gerlinde," I replied, "from your presence here, I'm guessing that Standartenführer Schultz has asked you to act as my brother's physician. So I need to give you his immediate medical history."
"Schultz... give us a moment."
Showing obvious reluctance to leave the side of his principal – presumably having finally got him back, he didn't want to lose him again – Schultz withdrew to the window, off to one side, and drew aside the curtains to look out. Outside, I could see that there was a storm raging, and wind and rain were lashing against the glass, in a way which didn't seem quite natural. I opened myself up to the impressions from it, and realised that it had blown up in reaction to the fact that Rupert had all but died on the floor of Sable palace, and that part of Magica Superior which was tied to him was feeling his pain. The Fatherland was in for a rough couple of days.
"Talk," Dominik said, and I called my attention back to him.
"He had a heart attack."
"Not possible."
"I wouldn't have believed it, either, but trust me...it's possible...as I discovered about an hour and a half ago," I replied, and gave him a full medical briefing on the incident and the treatment I had administered. As I spoke, I had the impression that while he still found the whole concept difficult to believe, he didn't disagree with anything I had done, which was possibly a good thing. I might yet walk away from there alive.
"How do you assess his chances of a full recovery?" he asked, finally, once he was satisfied that my brother's condition was stable.
"If we can get him out of the coma, maybe, but..."
"But?" he said, his tone suspicious.
"The heart attack was a bad one. I had to bring him back more than once."
"So you said."
"I had to bring him back, because he couldn't do it himself. Something he did this evening looks to have caused his shifting to...burn out, for want of a better description...and he was incapable of flipping into auto-survival mode. I have no idea if it's permanent or temporary."
From across the room, Schultz obviously heard the change in our voices as we reverted from confidential tones back to normal speech, and came rejoined us, and I noticed that Gerlinde didn't send him away again.
"I can think of a couple of ways that it can be done...I've even done it to others...but I wouldn't have expected him to use them himself."
"I don't know, and can't make a judgement without some details I'm not sure I want to hear. Guesses? Possibly he consciously suppressed it, because it was getting in his way. Possibly whatever he was doing overloaded it. Possibly he decided it was time to lay aside hypocrisy, follow his own tenets, and voluntarily surrender it. Only he knows, and in case you hadn't noticed, he isn't talking. Is there anything you can tell me which might help?"
"He was manipulating a great deal of energy," came Gerlinde's studied neutral reply to my question.
"Presumably generated during the ritual murder of Rutger Sigiswald, which you were both so cheerfully part of earlier this evening," I replied, my tone equally neutral, but noticed as I said it, that Schultz's body language was indicating that he'd been anything but cheerful earlier in the evening. Maybe he hadn't been utterly claimed by the darkness as yet. Gerlinde, however, just smiled, and I had no doubts that he'd enjoyed every minute of the ritual.
"You seem remarkably well informed," he said, finally.
"I've been reading between the lines, given some things he said to me yesterday. So he was manipulating a lot of energy. That matches with what Andrew implied..."
Mistake. Gerlinde tensed up the moment his father was mentioned.
"What does General de Lacy have to do with this?" he asked, his tone full of suspicion.
"From here, he went to Andrew, and from there they went to the Machine Homeworld. At which point Rupert launched a major magical attack on Andreas's home base. Andrew was very specific in saying that it felt like a Death Curse, but that's as far as I've got with reconstructing what happened. Rupert did mention yesterday that he'd got a theory about Curses that he wanted to prove...presumably that was what he was doing."
"Tell me, Robert. How do you know that it wasn't your son that did this to him?"
"To be honest, I don't," I replied, "but given that Andrew was the one who passed him through to me, I'm inclined to believe that this was something Rupert did to himself, either intentionally or unintentionally. Andrew would have been more likely to just gut him and have done with it."
"Fair point," he conceded, "could he have been injured by the Machine?"
"Again, possible," I allowed, "but I'm tempted to think it's unlikely. I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but you said he was manipulating the energy from the ritual. What exactly did he do?"
"He removed the traitor's Pattern imprint and stored the energy inside himself, along with the subsequent energy released by the execution."
"And Sigiswald's Death Curse? We both know that there has to have been one."
"He pronounced it as the Master took his Pattern," Schultz answered, obviously disturbed by the memory.
"Do you remember what it was?"
"Not word for word... but it was against the Machine."
"If I was being murdered, I rather doubt that I would have Cursed anyone but my killer," I commented.
"The Master is very persuasive," Dominik answered, with a far from pleasant smile which caused me a mental shiver down the spine, but I did my best not to let him bait me.
"So Rupert forces Sigiswald to Curse the Machine...and within ten minutes, he pronounces a similar Curse in the location where it's going to do the most damage. Of course, one of our kin can choose to pronounce a Curse coldly and rationally, rather than while in the process of, say, dying, if they hate someone or something enough. But doing so usually has very bad physiological and/or psychological effects, and therefore usually involves a certain amount of desperation.
"I don't claim to be a doctor," Schultz commented, "but this looks like a 'very bad physiological effect'?"
"Definitely," I concurred, "but while Rupert hates Andreas with a passion, we all know that he isn't the self-sacrificing kind...so he wouldn't have taken the risk of pronouncing a voluntary Curse..."
I stopped thinking aloud as the implications sank in.
"Oh Christ," I said as I realised what he'd done. He'd both managed to force a member of the family to pronounce the Curse he wanted spoken, overriding any wishes that the victim might have had in the matter, and then somehow taken that Curse to its target and released it.
"What?"
"That's what he did, isn't it? Take Sigiswald's Curse along with the energy as he stripped his Pattern imprint."
"As I understand it, yes," Gerlinde answered, his tone implying that he couldn't understand why I hadn't come to that conclusion earlier.
"And then what...he held it within himself and delivered it later?"
"Again, as I understand it, that was his intention."
"Except he miscalculated."
"How?" Gerlinde replied, and I could detect defensiveness in his tone. Defensiveness on Rupert's behalf? "It sounds as if everything went exactly to his calculations."
"Until you consider what powers a Curse. Desperation. Hatred. Revenge. Destruction. Death. Even if it wasn't aimed at him directly, that much negative energy, magnified by the power of Pattern imprint of the man pronouncing the Curse, and the intensity of a death ritual, and then taken within himself...there's no way it wouldn't affect him. And at the very worst, it could physically, neurologically and magically burn him out."
"Which explains why his shifting has ceased to function..." Gerlinde mused.
"Bugger that," I snapped, "it explains why he had a heart attack on the floor of Sable infirmary. If anything, I'm surprised he made it back from Prime alive at all."
We stared at each other in the awkward silence that followed, broken only by the howling of the gale outside. It was Schultz who finally found the voice to speak.
"Will he recover?"
"Honestly? I don't know. But I really don't want to think about the consequences for the Sable universe if he doesn't....if one of us is rendered utterly incapable..."
"What do you mean?" Gerlinde asked, puzzled.
"Let me take an example. ...that storm outside. It's linked to what he did, or more specifically, the effect of what he did on him. The fact that he is severely weakened, and almost died as a direct result of messing with the fundamental tenets of how Sable works, is having repercussions. I'd guess the Black Pattern is feeling...insecure...and it's decided to take it out on Magica Superior."
"But you were shot a couple of years ago, as I understand it, Your Majesty," Schultz said, unconvinced, "and he was badly injured last year. Yet I don't remember anything like that happening..."
"That was straight, physical damage...in both our cases. A lot of it, but normal damage with the exception of the weapon which inflicted it, This time, though, he was dealing in metaphysics...playing with the stuff of the universe...taking actions which are against the very nature of who and what we are. And to make matters worse, he did it while under the influence of a powerful stimulant, which may well have made the physiological side effects of his actions considerably worse. People like him and I can't afford to play these kind of games without considering the wider picture, but he bloody well went ahead and did it anyway."
"Powerful stimulant?" Schultz asked, with some trepidation.
"Bluntly. I detected cocaine in his bloodstream. That, mixed with what he did...not a good combination. One of you should talk to him about that before it becomes a problem. He might listen to you."
"If he ever wakes up," Gerlinde answered, smoothly, and I couldn't tell if he wanted that to happen or not. "But that aside. We can't stand here talking about this forever. Do we help him? Or do you think he's beyond saving...?"
I looked at him and my eyes met his, and I could see that he was deadly serious. But I couldn't accept the idea that Rupert couldn't be helped. Especially because if it were the case, and if Magica Superior survived the experience even vaguely intact, then I was looking at one of the Triumvirate who would take over the SS once he was gone.
Gerlinde, Kessler and Heydrich. I didn't see a lot of opportunities for civilised monthly tea parties with those three. Neither could I quite shake myself of the fear that Gerlinde might consider having Rupert utterly helpless in his hands was a great way of gaining a rapid promotion. I hoped my brother's judgement of him was right.
"You can't afford him to be beyond saving," I replied, firmly, "otherwise, your country as you know it will never be the same again."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"First. Get him to the Wewelsburg. He'll be closer to the Black Pattern, and if it isn't too pissed off with him for what he did to Sigiswald, being close to it will help him regenerate. His being there and stable might also calm it down somewhat, which in turn should help neutralise the storm."
"That can be done," Schultz concurred."
"Second. Get his shape shifting active, so his physical injuries can begin to heal. From what I know of your abilities, Obergruppenführer Gerlinde, that should be well within your capabilities."
"Indeed."
"And third?" Schultz asked, quietly.
"Start with one and two, and see if it makes a difference. If it doesn't, then I have no idea what three is."
"Do you intend to help us?" he said, but I shook my head.
"I'm happy to consult if you need me to – in fact, if there is neurological damage as well as physical, you probably will need me to - but I cannot and will not stay. Even if the place didn't stand for everything I hate about the Reich magically, and disagree with in Rupert's policies, I really can't see any way either the Sable or the Reich press could spin news that the King of Sable was hanging around the Wewelsburg well if it got found out."
"Probably not," Gerlinde answered, with a wry smile, "perhaps you should be on your way. "
"Indeed...I have some explaining of my own to do as it is."
And with that, I brought a mental Trump of Sable courtyard to mind and focused on it, but all I could do as I jumped was hope that they heeded my advice.