The Gate of Gods (Fall of the Ile-Rien)

by Martha Wells

  Swearing, Giliead stepped back, drawing his sword. “It’s a curse!”

  Tremaine looked up, startled, then collapsed as if she had been struck with a club, slumping down in a heap beside Gerard. Heart pounding, Ilias dumped the sphere on the ground and dragged his sword free of the scabbard, putting his back to Tremaine and Gerard.

  They were already surrounded by a group of men and a few women, some old and some young, staring at them with different degrees of startled consternation. They were dressed as the Rienish normally were, in jackets and pants of dull browns and grays, some of them in rougher work clothes. The women wore knee-length dresses in brighter colors, with the slim skirts that always looked so difficult to walk in. A few men wore open robes of black-and-purple silk over their clothes, something Ilias had never seen the Rienish do before. One of the younger men dressed that way said, “Drop your weapons. We’re sorcerers and you can’t harm us.”

  Ilias snorted derisively. If Tremaine’s hurt, I’ll kill that one first. He could hear clanking and spinning from the bag of spheres, as if they all agreed, and the one at his feet threw out a brief shower of sparks. In a tone of even menace, Giliead told the young man, “The next curse you throw at us will be your last.”

  He looked taken aback, but started to reply. Then an old man, balding with a short fringe of crinkly gray hair, pushed to the front of the crowd, saying, “Everyone, quiet!” He wore one of the silk robes over dull brown pants and a jacket, and a dark green striped cloth knotted at his neck. Ilias tensed as he fumbled for something in a pocket, but it turned out to be a pair of glass lenses like those Gerard wore. He got these fixed over his eyes, then gave Ilias and Giliead a sharp glance, stepping to the side a little to peer down at Tremaine and Gerard. Then he asked, “Who are you?”

  It was a reasonable question. Careful to speak the Rienish words clearly, Giliead answered, “We’re sent to help you. What did you do to our friends?”

  “Good question,” the old man said grimly. He raised his voice to ask the others, “Now who did this and what is it?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was me.” A dark-haired young woman pushed to the front, out of breath and red-faced. “It’s only a sleep adjuration. I saw them appear from my window and thought— Sorry. But it’ll wear off shortly, no harm done.”

  Ilias threw a glance at Giliead for confirmation, feeling sweat run down his back. Giliead lowered his sword and knelt to make sure Tremaine and Gerard were breathing. Ilias made himself keep his eyes on the men in front of him. After a tense moment, Giliead said in Syrnaic, “She’s right, they’re both just asleep. I’ll try to wake Tremaine. I think Gerard was struck ill before the curse hit.”

  Ilias took a breath, the relief sharp enough to be painful. Shaking it off, he replied in the same language, “He fell before the sphere started to spark. Don’t let Tremaine kill anybody when she comes to.” He realized the curse had missed him because he had been holding a sphere; good to know the thing still worked, even if it didn’t have a wizard inside it.

  The old man was watching them alertly, head cocked as he listened to them talk. One of the other men tried to speak to him and he motioned him to be silent, saying to Ilias, “Well, we can all see you aren’t Gardier. Who are you?”

  “Are you a wizard?” Ilias countered.

  Being Rienish, the man didn’t find this an objectionable question, and replied as readily as if Ilias had asked him if he came from Ancyra. “No, I’m the Master of the History College. I’m Arise Barshion.”

  Still in Syrnaic, Giliead confirmed, “I don’t think he’s lying. I don’t smell any curses on him and I do on some of these others.”

  Ilias lowered his sword, enough not to actively threaten Barshion. Great, that means the robes aren’t a good way to tell which ones are wizards. Even with Rienish wizards, he would prefer to have a way to tell. He said carefully, “We’re Syprians. We’re sent by—” Who? he thought suddenly. He couldn’t remember the name of the Rienish Matriarch’s daughter. “We’re sent by Warleader Colonel Averi. And Lady Aviler and Count Delphane.” Those were the highest-ranking Rienish he knew, and he hoped he was pronouncing the names well enough to make them understood.

  Apparently he was, because there were awed murmurs and exclamations from the people surrounding them. “But how did you do this?” one of the other men asked, gesturing helplessly at the ashy remnants of the circle.

  “Gerard did it,” Giliead told him. “It’s …a long story.”

  Another old man stepped forward, far more haggard and infirm than Barshion. Giliead watched him suspiciously but let him step close enough to lean down to look at Gerard. He straightened up, saying in astonishment, “Guilliame Gerard? Good God, it is him. You’d better call for a stretcher, Barshion, he doesn’t look well.”

  That appeared to settle things for Barshion. He nodded to himself, telling the others, “Summon the Masters. Chani, go and run to the Lord Mayor’s house, tell him to gather the city council.” He turned back to Ilias, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Young man, if you’ll put up that weapon, we can all go to my home and talk this out.”

  He was right, Gerard needed tending and these people had no reason to hurt him. And Ilias wanted badly to put his sword down so he could see for himself that Tremaine was all right. He cast a quick glance at Giliead to make sure they were in agreement, then returned his sword to the scabbard.

  Barshion turned away, calling orders to someone as Ilias knelt beside Tremaine. She was breathing well, as Giliead had said, and just looked asleep. Giliead was keeping a watchful eye on Gerard, and just in case, Ilias nudged the sphere over so it lay against Tremaine’s side.

  The crowd around them kept milling, new people coming and going as the word spread. They were bringing the stretcher, which turned out to be a heavy canvas sling supported by two poles for carrying, when Tremaine woke. She groaned, blinked, and her hand jerked toward the pocket that held her shooting weapon. Alert for this, Ilias caught her wrist before she could drag it out. “It’s all right,” he said quickly in Syrnaic. “They took us for Gardier and cursed you to sleep by accident. It didn’t get me because I was holding the sphere.”

  Tremaine swore in Rienish, violently enough to startle the people still surrounding them, and pushed herself upright. “That’s just fantastic,” she added bitterly, clutching her head and wincing. “What the hell’s wrong with Gerard?”

  Two of the younger men were helping Giliead lift him onto the stretcher. She had spoken in Rienish and one of them answered her, “We don’t know yet.” He gave her a suspicious glance, reminding Ilias of Ander. “Why are you here?”

  Ilias rolled his eyes. Very like Ander. Tremaine snarled, “We’re rescuing you, you idiot.”

  Some of the Rienish still seemed suspicious of a trick, but Tremaine used Rienish words Ilias had never heard before, and this convinced the others. Apparently they thought a Gardier spy trying to persuade them to trust her wouldn’t talk to them that way.

  Barshion led them out of the park to his quarters, a small vine-covered house of amber brick tucked between the larger stone edifices. It had a sharply peaked roof and colored glass windows, and was entered through a garden court. The rooms were cavelike and cool, with walls covered in dark wood and a slate stone floor, and little of the gray daylight leaked in through the windows. A few dim wisps of wizard light floated near the ceilings, revealing that the walls had the colored glass holders for curse lights, but none of them were lit.

  They wanted to take Gerard off to a bedchamber; Tremaine didn’t so much hesitate as stop dead, blocking the narrow hall and looking thoughtful in a threatening way. Barshion gave her a sharp glance. “I take it you’re the leader?”

  “Yes,” Ilias said immediately.

  Tremaine threw him a dark look. “Yes,” she told Barshion.

  “He’ll be all right. I’ve sent for the Master Sorcerer-Healer.”

  After eyeing the old man, she nodded and stepped out of the way. They carried Gera
rd to the other room and Giliead followed to keep an eye on him, pausing to pass Ilias the pack of spheres. The room Barshion led them to was just down another short hall, and seemed to be a place for dining, but with the flat Rienish books stacked on almost every available surface. There was a small fire in a heavily carved wooden hearth surrounded by dark green tiles. The wispy wizard lights drifted in with them but Barshion took a spill and lit several candlelamps, saying, “I can’t stand those damn things—always wander off just when you need them.” He poked at the fire and added some wood to it.

  Tremaine glanced around the room. “I take it you haven’t had electricity or gas since the barrier went up.”

  “Yes. We rationed the coal and oil, but they’ve run out now too. Fortunately, the amount of unnecessary furniture in a town and a university this size is staggering.” As Barshion spoke, he pushed books and papers aside to clear a space on the table, and set out cups of a delicate pottery with a blue-and-white pattern. Ilias saw that his hands were shaking, and knew the old man was maintaining his calm demeanor with effort. “We’ve only recently had to start cutting down trees. The large number of cottage gardens and householders who had their milk cows, sheep, goats, chickens and so forth within the town limits have kept us supplied with food, and we’ve converted most of the open land to agriculture. Again, fortunately, the barrier does not succeed in keeping out rain, nor has it affected the wells and groundwater. We are feeling the lack of coffee and other essentials.” He opened a cabinet in the bookcase and took out a tall green bottle. “But, considering the occasion, I think I can afford to serve the last of the Ananti Red while you tell me how you came here.” He gestured for her to take a seat.

  Tremaine hesitated, then took a chair at the table. Ilias took a seat on a padded couch against the wall behind her, so he could keep an eye on Barshion and watch the two doorways in the other half of the room. Instinct told him to trust Barshion, but he wasn’t sure if the old man was the leader here or not. He deposited the pack of spheres next to his feet, close enough to keep him from falling under any curses. As the pack shifted against the floor, he heard the contents clank and hiss.

  After a moment of gripping the table, apparently to focus her thoughts, Tremaine started to tell the story. It was the brief version, concerned mostly with the spheres and the curse circles and how they had managed to get here, leaving out the personal parts. A few other people, two older men and a young woman, came in quietly and stood in the shadows of the other half of the room or shifted books aside to perch on the dusty furniture. Ilias could just glimpse others listening out in the hallway. He heard the murmurs of dismay when Tremaine told them of the Rienish cities that were occupied by the Gardier. When Barshion poured the strong red Rienish wine, he refused it with a shake of his head, feeling terribly out of place. This was a Rienish place, a Rienish moment, and he had no part in it.

  Tremaine finished with, “So it’s up to you, if you want to evacuate or fight. Or both. We have five spheres to give you now. The Gardier are getting ready to drop the barrier. Do you have anything that’s keeping them out or was that just wishful thinking on our part?”

  “Our wards were augmented shortly after the barrier appeared.” Sitting at the table, listening intently, Barshion shook his head, as if waking from a dream. He sat up, his face drawn. “It was closing in on us, and if the wards hadn’t held—” He gestured tiredly. “At first the Gardier made occasional forays just inside—to the no-man’s-land between the barrier and our wards—to communicate with us and to test our resolve. For the last year they’ve been content to simply wait us out. But we can tell the wards are beginning to fail. That’s undoubtedly why they’re preparing to drop the barrier.”

  “The palace wards lasted for a long time too, but they’re some of the oldest magic in the country.” It was Tremaine’s turn to eye him sharply. “How did you ‘augment’ your wards?”

  One of the men on the other side of the room shifted uneasily. Barshion said, “Our Master Sorcerer used necromancy; he sacrificed himself to keep the Gardier out.”

  “There were times I considered that, but Niles just couldn’t be persuaded to make the sacrifice,” a dry voice said wearily from the doorway. “Also, I think it’s going to make it damn difficult to shore up your ward structure with the spheres. I suspect we’ll have to dismantle it, then build another one from the ground up.”

  Ilias looked up, sharply relieved to see Gerard upright and conscious and sarcastic, and even more relieved to see Giliead follow him in. An older woman came after them, saying with exasperation, “This is ridiculous, you must rest. You are completely exhausted—”

  Gerard looked completely exhausted. In the candlelight his face was as white as bleached bone and his eyes were dark hollows. Tremaine grimaced but didn’t comment. Ilias lifted his brows at Giliead, who cast his eyes up in a gesture of defeat. Ilias nodded, getting the message that Gerard couldn’t be in a worse condition to do curses, but that there was nothing to be done about it. Gerard added, “The sooner we start the better. Our gate spell must have punched a hole right through your already weakening warding structure. If the Gardier realize it’s there—”

  “Gerard.” Barshion stood up, regarding him seriously. “I believe we owe you and everyone else here a great deal of gratitude.”

  Gerard shook his head, leaning on the back of a handy chair, and trying to make it look like a casual gesture rather than a need for support. “I believe we’d all prefer to wait on that. Now if you have a spot where I can begin constructing the circle—”

  Chapter 18

  Again, Tremaine found herself with nothing to do except wait and feel her nerves slowly disintegrate from tension. The spheres had been given to five cautious sorcerers, who were now using them to build new wards around the town. Gerard had been right, the Master’s act of necromancy had made the wards powerful enough to keep out the Gardier, but also impossible to do anything else with. Magic involving death, even a voluntary death, was terribly powerful but also tended to distort and corrupt any other etheric structures associated with it. Gerard had had a more involved and technical explanation, but that was all Tremaine had bothered to listen to. The other Lodun Masters had apparently known this; the Second Master had already taken certain texts out of the locked section of the Aldebaran Library and been boning up on the technique for his sacrifice.

  For some time Gerard had been at work building the circle in the east quadrangle, a park surrounded on three sides by the pillared galleries of the Philosophy College and on the fourth by a narrow avenue that led out toward the Medical College. Gerard, using the sphere, was marking the circle out with paint on the paved area on the center of the green. He was paced by Adel Kashani, a Parscian sorceress who was trying to learn the spell, and several students. Giliead was down there with him, watching the Rienish sorcerers with enigmatic caution.

  Gerard was nearly finished, though he was moving much more slowly now. Building the circle in the conventional way was slower but apparently much less physically taxing than connecting the premade symbols. And Barshion, with the Master Physician, had at least persuaded Gerard to drink a glass of wine and eat some cheese and bread before beginning. Now he looked like death warmed over instead of just death.

  The Lodun town council and the university Masters were having a meeting under the gallery of the Philosophy College, with more people, from Masters and Scholars with university gowns over their battered and much-mended suits to students in shirtsleeves and summer dresses to farmers, laborers and merchants, all coming and going and spreading the news. To avoid questions she was in no mood to answer, Tremaine went up the gallery stair to the open portico that ran along the college roof. There was a good view of the court from there and part of the avenue.

  The university was a maze of interconnected college courts, with houses and private gardens for the Masters and Scholars as well as student halls scattered among them. Buildings of old stone, with ancient round towers or more modern
spires or green-stained copper domes stood next to the newer brick constructions. Past the low and mostly useless university wall were the houses and shops of the town, and past them the barrier.

  Ilias had followed her, leaning against the balustrade to look up at the frieze carved into the pediment of the roof above. It was something about the advance of philosophy, and mainly showed a lot of old men handing each other significant objects too small to really make out. Tremaine thought the profusion of gargoyles on the Medical College more interesting.

  The barrier made the air perpetually warm, giving the whole town a hothouse quality. Tremaine had dumped her jacket down on the gallery and rolled her sleeves up, though she still kept her bag over her shoulder, not willing to leave the explosives and ammunition unguarded. Ilias and Giliead had abandoned their coats as well. Ilias’s queue was still coming apart and he was bare-armed and nearly bare-chested in the wine-red shirt she liked, with her ring on a thong around his neck. He was a colorful contrast against the gray stone, with the patterns stamped into the leather of his boots and pants, the curved horn hilt of the sword slung across his back, the copper in his armbands and earrings. He and Giliead both made exotic figures, and in the comings and goings below she could see Giliead was drawing almost as much attention as the circle.

  Ilias turned around, looking down at the court. She hadn’t thought he would say anything, but after a moment he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  This time Tremaine couldn’t make herself answer “Nothing.” There was no point in putting it off any longer. They had brought spheres to Lodun. If the Falaise and the Ravenna reached Parscia, the spheres they carried to the sorcerers there would keep the Gardier from crossing the borders. But the war would go on, possibly for years. It would surely take at least that long to convince Castines or whatever was driving the Gardier on that it couldn’t get what it wanted in Ile-Rien, not anymore. There was no point in Ilias continuing to risk himself. And she knew if a stuck-up prig like Cletia was willing to unbend enough to admit she wanted him, there had to be other Syprian women willing to do the same. And all of them would be better for him than her. Not looking at him, she put her hands on the balustrade, feeling the old stone grit against her skin. “We both know this isn’t going to work.”