Angus Wells - The God Wars 01

by Forbidden Magic (v1. 1)

Calandryll glanced sidelong at Bracht, hoping the freesword was satisfied with this response. Varent accepted the manifestation too readily to fear it: his interest was that of the scholar. Had he thought the creature warned against him, surely he would have shown some sign of alarm, would not wish to visit the site of its appearance. And he appeared supremely confident that it was not some conjuration of his rival. If anything, his words agreed with Bracht's own beliefs, save in their diverse interpretations of the warning. Bracht was wrong, he decided: as he suspected, the Kem's dislike clouded his judgment. Reassured, he nodded, smiling; he was fortunate to have encountered Varent.

  "Well," the ambassador asked, "will you show me this wondrous oak?"

  Calandryll looked again at Bracht, not quite ready to agree without the Kern's approval, and saw him duck his head, turning his stallion from the line of march. Varent called to his men to proceed, following the mercenary into the depths of the forest.

  They reached the glade and dismounted. The oak stood majestic at the center, but now it seemed only a tree, huge, impressive in its age and vast size, but otherwise mundane. The sunlight seemed brighter here only because of the space around the tree, and the earlier stillness, the solemn silence, was replaced with bird song and the gentle rustling of a breeze. Varent walked toward the oak, staring up at the spreading branches. Calandryll saw Bracht watching the man, as though anticipating some revelation of falsity, some confirmation of his suspicions, but Varent appeared merely a scholar, fascinated by the vast growth. He drew close, touching the bole, smiling as a squirrel chattered from a branch, and paced slowly around the trunk.

  "Do you still believe the byah warned of him?" Calandryll whispered.

  Bracht nodded without speaking; Calandryll grunted, frustrated by the Kern's irrational obstinacy.

  "Magnificent!" Varent came toward them, beaming delightedly. "If a byah was to appear anywhere, it must surely be from such a splendid tree."

  He halted, turning to study the oak afresh. Bracht said, "You seem familiar with the ways of Cuan na'For."

  Varent ducked his head absently, absorbed in his observation.

  "I have made a study of most religions. As I mentioned to Calandryll, Marsius is quite fascinating—you should read him." He laughed briefly, waving an apologetic hand. "Forgive me, I forget you cannot read."

  Bracht said nothing and Varent went to his horse.

  "Fascinating. I am pleased to have seen it, but now we should rejoin the others."

  He mounted the chestnut, favoring the glade with a final glance as if hoping something might yet appear, then urged his mount back through the beeches. Calandryll followed, Bracht at the rear, his swarthy face impassive, and they trotted after the column.

  For two days and a half they traversed the forest, emerging on the scam of a ridge that descended through thinning stands of birch to a grassy plain. Feral cattle grazed there, and horses, scattering from their approach with tossing horns and wild waving manes. They forded three shallow streams and floated the wagon across a river, spending the remainder of that day on the far bank, drying clothes and gear, their horses content to crop on the lush grass. Varent's men welcoming the leisure. Calandryll enjoyed no such respite, for Bracht declared that it was time he improved his sword skills and as he no longer suffered from the aching muscles and stiffness that had at first plagued him, he had no reason to argue. They were, after all, drawing steadily closer to Aldarin and the real start of the quest, when swordwork might well be needed.

  From noon to dusk, and then each evening when they halted, the Kem drilled him in the finer points of swordplay as Varent and his men looked on, calling advice and shouting encouragement. Calandryll was pleased to find that he grew more limber with each passing day: he had, as Bracht had remarked, hardened, and he did his best to give a good account of himself as he faced the mercenary.

  Bracht's praise as he improved delighted him and he was surprised to find that he took a pleasure in their duels that he had never known under the instruction of Torvah Banul on the practice grounds of his father's palace. Sleep, too, was a newfound boon, for when they cleared the forest his dreams ceased altogether.

  He had thought them gone, but after the visitation of the byah they returned, as though the trees themselves sent visions, though of what he was uncertain. He would drift comfortably into sleep only to find himself standing once more in the clearing, moonlit in his dreaming, silvery light filtering through the branches of the great oak, the night silent and still all round. The byah would emerge from the substance of the tree and walk toward him with upraised arms, the twigs of its fingers spread wide so that he was unsure whether it raised its limbs in warning or threat. It would speak, but the words always got lost in the wind that blew then, cold and fierce so that the dendriform creature stood shaken by the gust, returning slowly, as if defeated, to blend again with the oak. As it merged, Bracht and Varent would come from the shadows at the oak's base, each man beckoning him, calling him to join them, to left or right of the tree, and he would stand undecided, knowing he must choose between them, but not knowing to which one he should go.

  This dream stayed with him until they reached the grasslands, as though the power of the tree ended there, but once the forest lay behind them he slept untroubled.

  He decided, finally, that the dream was not a sending of the byah but a product of his own making, the result of his increasingly divided loyalties. He remained confident that Varent's purpose was unimpeachable, but Bracht's mistrust was implacable, and that still disturbed him. A bond grew with the Kem, begun when they fought the demons together, cemented by his own guarding of the freesword's doubts, strengthened by the hours spent together. He no longer saw the mercenary as merely a hired man, motivated by desire for Varent's coin, but as a friend; and Bracht no longer evinced that vague contempt for his softness, his inexperience, but seemed to regard him increasingly as an equal, a comrade. It was as though, with their sharing of the s warning, he had passed a further unspoken test, earning himself a higher place in Bracht's estimation, and he valued that.

  On the other hand, he trusted Varent, enjoying the ambassador's urbane company no less than the Kem's. At night, after sword practice was ended, and often as they rode, Varent would discourse on the history of Lysse, the religions of their world, a myriad topics in which the ambassador was well-versed as any pedagogue, and Calandryll delighted in his erudition as keenly as he found himself enjoying Bracht's more physical tutoring.

  It was a time he thought of later with some nostalgia: a time of innocence, almost idyllic.

  They crossed the plain and saw low hills rising before them, the grass ending, giving way to more arid terrain: hard, reddish-brown earth scattered with thrustings of grey and black stone, as if the land was pared to the bone. Still there was no sign of human habitation, nor any magical visitations as they wound a devious route among the knolls, climbing steadily to emerge after three days on a windswept plateau. Varent called a halt there, pointing ahead.

  "Aldarin lies beyond this grass," he announced. "On the Alda."

  Calandryll squinted into the heat-hazed distance. The wind was strong, rustling his lengthening hair, whipping his horse's mane and tail, and on its gusting he could smell the ocean. Far off to the west the land fell down to meet the Narrow Sea, verdant green merging with the blue; and ahead the plateau stretched lush with spring grass. He saw buildings, painted blue, a shade akin to Varent's tunic, squat and walled, like tiny fortresses, flat roofs bright beneath the cloud-flecked sky.

  "Ranches," Varent explained, "that provide the city's meat."

  He seemed enthusiastic, eager to reach his home city, his men no less so, and they commenced the crossing of the plateau at a brisk pace.

  They encountered drovers, dark-tanned men in tunics and breeks of weather-beaten leather bearing long lances and riding sturdy ponies, who called greetings as they recognized the emblems decorating the wagon, but Varent steered them past the ranches and they camped in the
open still, for the two days it took to cross the high grazing land.

  Around midmoming on the third day the plateau fell away in a sweeping slope that ran down to a broad valley, farms and vineyards spread along both sides, the ribbon of the Alda glittering silver blue all down its length. At the foot, where the river met the sea, stood Aldarin.

  Like Secca—like all the cities of Lysse—the place was walled, its buildings contained within the circle of the ramparts. Calandryll saw the paved road running alongside the river, disappearing into great gates of metal- barred timber, mangonels threatening the approach. On the farther side, visible from the vantage point of the slope, was the harbor, spreading to either side of the walls within the bay formed by the valley. Ships lay at anchor there, toylike in the distance, the ramparts of the city extended in two sweeping horns to encompass the bay, blockhouses at their extremities. It was a well-defended place, clearly able to withstand siege, yet festive, the houses colorful, the streets bright and busy.

  The air was fresh, sweetened by the perfumes of the vines and tangy with the salt smell of the blue-grey sea as they followed a drovers' road that wound down the slope to join the highway. By noon they were at the city gate, halting as a squad of mail-clad soldiers under the command of a captain raised pikes in salute to Varent.

  "Welcome, Lord Varent," the officer declared, bowing. "Your journey was successful?"

  "Most successful," Varent replied. "The Domm will be pleased with the outcome."

  The officer nodded. "You require an escort, my lord?"

  "I think not," Varent said, smiling. "My own retinue is sufficient, and I'd visit my palace before attending the Domm."

  "As you wish, my lord."

  The captain barked an order and the soldiers formed into ranks, clearing a way into the city. Varent headed the column, Calandryll and Bracht behind as they passed beneath the arch of tne walls into a broad market square, gay with stalls and crowded, the folk there parting to let them through. An avenue paved in blue stone led out of the plaza, running between warehouses, straight as the roads bisecting Secca, opening onto more squares bright under the noonday sun, then on through quarters that reminded Calandryll of his home, all bustling, alive with activity.

  Varent turned onto a narrower highway as they approached the center and soon they rode through gardens and past houses attesting to the elevated status of their owners, set back behind protective walls, cool and spacious after the busy streets. Varent halted before a magnificent edifice, its roof and upper story visible beyond a wall of whitewashed bricks, its gates painted a vivid azure. He shouted and men in tunics of blue and gold swung the gates open.

  They bowed, murmuring deferential greetings, and Varent rode between the gates into the courtyard.

  "Welcome to my home," he said, dismounting.

  Calandryll and Bracht climbed down as servants came running to attend their master. Varent turned to the Kem.

  "No doubt you'll wish to inspect the stables, though I assure you your horse will be tended."

  He tossed his own reins to a servant. Calandryll found another waiting to take his, but after a moment's hesitation he shook his head, eliciting a chuckle from the ambassador, an approving nod from Bracht.

  "I'll await you inside."

  Varent seemed to find his refusal amusing and he experienced a flush pf embarrassment, as though he had chosen sides. The animal was not, after all, his, though he had groomed it and tended it—another of Bracht's lessons—since that first day in the caravanserai. He smiled apologetically and followed the Kem across the yard.

  The stables were set to the rear of the house, a long row of spacious stalls shaded by a tiled portico, redolent of sweet-smelling hay and horseflesh. Varent's men left the wagon there for the house servants to unload, leaving their animals to the grooms and disappearing into the building. Calandryll unsaddled the gelding and rubbed it down, checking that the manger was filled and the trough supplied with sufficient water, grinning as it occurred to him that he had never devoted so much time to a horse: it seemed Bracht's influence was rubbing off. Then, satisfied, he joined the Kem and together they followed a patiently waiting servant into the house.

  The building was smaller than the Domm's palace in Secca, but, if anything, more luxurious. High windows admitted the sea-fresh air and the hall in which they found themselves was scented with the plants that grew in great urns of jade and malachite, standing on a floor patterned with blue and gold mosaics, the walls a soft blue that merged with the cerulean of the ceiling to produce the impression that they walked through a submarine garden. Beyond was a corridor where marble busts stood in niches, each one lit by the sun that entered from an artfully cut embrasure on the opposite wall, ending at a door faced with beaten copper. The servant opened the door and ushered them through, into a cool, airy room where Varent waited.

  Here, the walls were white, the floor polished wood laid in chevron patterns, a hearth set with unlit logs to one side, windows to the other. Varent lounged in a nigh- backed chair, the light accentuating the fine-drawn planes of his aquiline features, his feet thrust out, dusty boots resting on a lacquered stool. He smiled as they entered, rising to fill three silver goblets with rich, red wine, gesturing at the seats arranged in a semicircle about the hearth.

  "A toast," he declared, "to our safe arrival. Azumandias cannot touch you here."

  Calandryll accepted the goblet he offered, Bracht the other.

  "I suggest we eat," Varent said. "Or would you prefer to bathe?"

  Bracht said, "Eat," and Calandryll nodded his agreement.

  "So be it." Varent settled himself comfortably and sipped his wine. "The servants will show you to your rooms and provide anything you wish. I must leave you for a while—the Domm will require news of my dealings with Secca, but I shall likely return late, if not tomorrow. One thing I would impress on you, however—so long as you remain within these walls Azumandias cannot harm you." He glanced at Bracht, an expression part warning, part apology, as though he understood the Kem s dislike of sorcery. "I have set spells to ward this place, but outside you are in danger. Azumandias must surely leam of my arrival and will watch this house. Do not leave here, on peril of your lives!"

  "Azumandias is in Aldarin?" Bracht asked.

  "Perhaps." Varent shrugged. "Certainly his agents are—and his power is considerable, as you know."

  "Why not kill him?" the freesword demanded bluntly "Put a blade between his ribs and have done with it."

  Varent laughed.

  "Would that it were so simple, my friend. But it is not Azumandias is a mightier wizard than I can hope to be and he guards himself with magic. And there are laws in Aldarin—the punishment for murder is the gallows."

  "The man who sent those demons against us respected no laws," Bracht retorted. .

  "No," agreed Varent, patiently, "but what proof is there Azumandias sent them? Save for you and Calandryll, they came and went unseen. And should I produce you as witnesses, Azumandias must know for sure you are here. At present, he must wonder. At the least, but unsure where you are."

  "It takes no wizard to guess we'll be here, Bracht argued.

  "Probably," Varent nodded, "but he cannot be certain. I have estates beyond the city and I might have secreted you there. While you remain behind my walls he cannot know for sure."

  "Your servants?" the mercenary demanded. "The men who rode with us? They might talk."

  Varent beamed approvingly. "Your caution is admirable," he applauded, "but you need not fear on that score— my people are trustworthy. They will give nothing away."

  "And when we leave?"

  Varent raised a conspiratorial finger. "When you leave," he said, "you will go swiftly to the harbor. A ship will be waiting and with luck you'll be gone before he knows it."

  "When will that be?" Bracht asked.

  "Soon," promised Varent. "I must locate a suitable vessel—a trustworthy captain—before you may safely depart."

  "So until then,
" Bracht said slowly, "we are prisoners."

  "Hardly prisoners," Varent chuckled. "Honored guests. I think you will find your sojourn comfortable enough."

  Bracht grunted and drained his goblet. Calandryll asked, "What of the charts?"

  "The charts," smiled Varent, "Yes, the charts. Immediately my business with the Domm is concluded we must study them. Then I must find a ship. Likely, I shall be required at the palace most of tonight. In the morning, then?"

  Calandryll nodded, satisfied. Varent said, "Now, shall we eat?" and rose, ushering them from the room.

  He was an agreeable host, maintaining a flow of casual conversation throughout the meal that precluded any further discussion of their plans, and Calandryll found himself relaxing, enjoying his sophistication and ready wit. Bracht remained taciturn, but that was not unusual, and he offered no objection when Varent declared that he must attend the Domm and left them in the care of his servants.

  They were shown to adjoining rooms, where baths were drawn and women in fine silk robes waited to assist them. They were attractive, but Calandryll dismissed the pair intent on bathing him and climbed alone into the tub, disturbed by their presence: their fair faces and luscious bodies reminded him of Nadama. It was strange, he mused as the hot water lapped about him, that he had not thought of her in days, yet it was her rejection that had set him on this path. Had she preferred him, would he still be in Secca? Certainly, he would not have nin from the palace to get drunk in the Sailors Gate; and if he had not done that he would never have met Bracht; perhaps Varent might not have offered him the means to escape the destiny decreed by his father. Reba had outlined the path he might take, but that was not predetermined, and if Nadama had accepted his suit he might never have taken those first steps along the path that brought him here.

  He wondered what his father did now. Did watchmen scour the city? Did patrols search the countryside? Perhaps Bylath had news from the caravanserai, but what if he did? Would he send a mission to Aldarin, demanding the return of his errant son? Would even Bylath dare accuse Varent of aiding his escape? It seemed unlikely: political expediency would surely override the risk of such insult. And Varent need only deny it: the Domm of Aldarin was hardly likely to suspect his own ambassador. So he was safe under Varent's protection.