Tides of Darkness

by Judith Tarr

  This was a proud city; she might even have called it arrogant. As she rode through its gate, she took note of the strength of its guards, tall robust men with fair skin and sea-colored eyes. They raked those eyes over her, stripped her naked with them, and grinned approval, but they neither knew nor feared her. Perel in her shadow attracted more notice. They took count of his weapons, recalled a legend or two of black-veiled warriors from the distant east, noted that he was no taller than a boy of twelve summers, and dismissed him as they had her.

  She would not waste either power or temper on hired brawn. She took the straightest way through the city, which was somewhat convoluted: there were three walls, with gates at different points along them, to slow the advance of invaders. The citadel rose high in the center, a tower of iron and grey granite, with a banner flying from its summit: gold sea-drake on scarlet.

  There were a good number of people in the streets, and most seemed well-fed and well-muscled. Women did not go armed, but all the men did. She saw children everywhere—many naked in the winter’s cold, but seeming impervious to it.

  The gate of the citadel was open like the gate below. Its guards were just as arrogant and no more inclined to offer courtesy to a pair of yellow-eyed foreigners. They were, however, more wary. They barred Merian’s way with spears. “No riding-beasts in the citadel,” they said. “No weapons, either.”

  Merian shattered their spears with a flick of the hand. “I will speak with your lord,” she said. “Bring me to him.”

  They were not fools. She was glad to see that. They knew a mage when they saw one. “You will wait,” said their captain, and with somewhat of an effort: “Lady.” As he spoke, one of his men departed at the run.

  She did not have to wait overlong. During that time, Perel amused himself by honing each of his swords, then the daggers he carried about his person. He was on the third when the guardsman came back. The man’s face was pale. “He says for you to go down to the city and wait, lady. He’ll summon you when he can.”

  “Indeed?” said Merian. “How lordly of him.”

  She rode forward with Perel behind her. The guards, loyal to their lord, tried to bar her with their bodies. She flung the Sun in their faces. While they reeled, blinded, she rode through the gate and into the courts of the citadel.

  The lord was in his hall, entertaining a goodly gathering. She recognized at least one notorious pirate, and would have wagered on a dozen more. The lord himself, she knew slightly: he had appeared in court some years since, to be confirmed in his demesne and to swear fealty to her mother as regent. He was a large and handsome man, a fact of which he was well aware. His black hair was thick and curled in ringlets, mingling with his great black beard. There were rings of gold in his ears and clasping his heavy white arms; a massive collar of gold lay on his wide shoulders. A jewel flamed on each finger; he was belted with plates of gold crusted with sea-pearls.

  The roar of carousal died as she rode into the hall. She had brought the Sun with her, and a fire of magic that sent guards and servants reeling back. She halted in front of the high seat and looked into the lord’s startled face. “My lord Batan,” she said. “Your city is prosperous. I applaud you.”

  “You are bold, lady,” he said. He grinned. “I like that. Here, come up. Sit with me. Adorn us with your beauty.”

  She held up her hand for him to kiss. He froze at sight of the Sun in it. She watched the race of thoughts across his face, and arrested it with a cool word. “I am not here for dalliance. This city will be dust and ash by morning. Would you save it? Then listen to me.”

  “Ah, great lady,” said Batan. “Your fears are flattering, but you needn’t fret for us. We’re well defended here. Who’s coming for us? Raiders? Pirates? Rebels and renegades? We’re armed against them all.”

  “Against this you are not.” She urged the mare forward, up the steps of the dais, until she stood over the lord in his tall chair. “Where are your mages? Why are your walls not warded?”

  “Lady,” he said, barely cowed by the sight of her looming above him, “with all due respect, mages and fighting men have little in common.”

  “Indeed?” said Perel. Merian had not seen him move, but he was off the back of his senel, leaning lightly on the arm of Batan’s chair, with the point of a dagger resting against the great vein of the lord’s throat. With his free hand he conjured a flock of bright birds that scattered, singing, through the hall. “Warrior and mountebank, I, and occasional imperial errand-runner. Do believe her, sea-lord. I’ve seen what this city is about to be, and it is not a pleasant sight.”

  “We are defended,” Batan said.

  “Not against this.” Perel lowered the knife but kept it ready, angled to pierce either eye or throat if the man moved untimely. “You should not have let your mages die off or settle elsewhere. Strength of arms is all very well, but this requires strength of magic.”

  “Indeed? Then why isn’t—whatever it is—choosing mages for targets? Is it hungry to taste good clean steel?”

  “It shatters cities,” Merian said, “and takes slaves. It comes from beyond the stars. I can defend you, but I ask a thing in return.”

  “Of course you do,” said Batan. “What do you need of me, beautiful lady?”

  “A hundred of your best fighting men, with mounts for them all. And leave for my guardsman here to do whatever he deems necessary for the defense of this city.”

  “Men and mounts,” said Batan, nodding slowly. “And provisions? How long a campaign?”

  “One night,” she said. “From dark until dawn.”

  “Then you won’t be going far.”

  “Just out of sight of the city,” she said. “If there’s a level of land within that distance, with room enough to build a city, that will do best. If not, we’ll make do with what we can find.”

  “I know of a place,” he said. “It was a city once. They say mages broke it in a war, ages ago, when mages still fought wars.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. She knew nothing of such a city, or of such wars as he spoke of. They must be ancient beyond imagining, forgotten in the mists of time.

  Now they would live again. “Yes,” she said to him. “That will do very well. Choose your men now. We mount and ride within the hour. It were best we be in place before nightfall.”

  “I do like a strong woman,” Batan said. Perel’s dagger had withdrawn; he rose. His armlets and collar clashed as he flung them on the floor. His people were staring, mute, comprehending only that there was a battle ahead of them. He singled out ten of them, swiftly. “Fetch your men. First court, now.”

  They flung off the fumes of wine and idleness and leaped to do his bidding. Merian nodded approval. Perel was not pleased with the task she had given him, but for once he did not object. This was battle—he would defer to his general, however little he liked his orders.

  When she came to the courtyard, she found her hundred men already gathered. One more joined them: Batan on a seneldi stallion as massive and beautifully arrogant as he was himself. He was armored as they all were, cloaked against the cold, but grinning delightedly at the prospect of a fight.

  She found that she was grinning back. Gods knew she was no pirate, but after so long in fretting and in waiting, she was more than glad to be taking some action, even if it should prove completely useless.

  The sun was sinking, but there was time, Batan assured her, to reach the ruins and set up camp. They could ride at speed, with no need to spare the seneldi. The evening was clear, if cold; the wind had died to a brisk breeze.

  As they rode at the gallop through the city gate, the wards rose into a high and singing fortress, a flame of golden light in the long rays of the sun. Merian sighed and let herself slump briefly on the dun mare’s neck, before she straightened and urged the senel onward. The mare was desert-bred: that pause in the lord’s hall had been as good as sleep and grazing to her. She would need water and forage soon, but with the gods’ good favor, she would have it. />
  The ruined city lay somewhat over a league away, perched on a crag over a swirling maelstrom of waves. Its walls were broken, its towers tumbled in the winter grass. There was still a fragment of citadel, and enough wall to shelter this small an army. While they made camp, pitching tents and building fires and posting sentries, she walked the line of the old walls, gathering power as she went.

  It had been some while since she made such a working, a great illusion and a subtle lure for the darkness. She could feel the stretching at the edges of her magic, the strain of arts and powers unused or little used, but she was not taxed unduly, not yet. If she had been less in haste, she would have brought with her a company of mages from Starios. It was only Perel’s stubbornness that had given her such support as she had.

  Too late now for regrets. If—when—she did this again, she would do it properly. Now she had to hope, first, that her workings would rise and hold, and then that she had guessed rightly; that the enemy would come here and not somewhere altogether unforeseen.

  Batan followed her on her round of the walls. He did not vex her with chatter, but his eyes were a little too intent for comfort. She closed them out while she brought her magics together and raised the walls anew, stone by stone at first, then swifter, as the magic found its stride. The earth woke to the working, and drew up power of its own, startling her, but she had wits enough to make use of the gift as it was offered.

  She built a city of air and darkness. Each of the men who camped in it, she swelled to a dozen, then a hundred, populating the city with strong warriors. Herself she scattered through it, so that she was a myriad of women, young and strong, with babes at the breast and babes in the belly, and flocks of children.

  When she was done, she encompassed multitudes; and this broken city seemed alive again, if any had looked on it from without. From within, without magic, there was little to see, save a flicker of shadows.

  A few of the men were white-rimmed about the eyes. Those had enough power to sense a glimmer of what she had done. She mounted a heap of rubble that might once have been a stair, and waited for them all to take notice of her. The sun was nearly down; swift dusk was falling. She mantled herself in light, damping it lest she alarm the men, but letting it seem as if she had caught the last glow of the sun. “Men of Seahold,” she said, “I thank you for this gift that you have given me. You are the shield and bulwark of your city, and its greatest defense. It may be that you will have to fight tonight. Don’t be astonished if shadows seem to fight beside you. You may die; you may be taken captive. This will not be an easy battle, if battle there is. If any of you would withdraw, you should do so now. I can send you to safety while it is still possible.”

  “What will we be fighting, lady?” asked a whip-thin man with a terribly scarred face. “There’s no threat from the land, and nothing will come at us by sea, not on this cliff.”

  “It will come from the far side of the night,” Merian answered him,

  “and it will do its best to enslave you. You are bait, captain; if I’ve laid the snare properly, this invasion will pass by Seahold altogether and fall on us here.”

  “Ah!” said the captain. “Bait we understand. Deadly danger, risk of being boarded, captured, sold in the Isles—what! Are you shocked, lady? Do you think your laws can bind a pirate?”

  “I think,” said Merian, “that those laws might be enforced more strictly hereafter—but also that some sentences might be commuted for services rendered to the empire. If you survive. If this gamble succeeds.”

  “We are all gamblers here,” another man said. Grins flashed white, spreading fast, for none was to be outdone by any other.

  She had them. They were no cowards; they did not know enough to be afraid, nor maybe would they quail even if they had known. They took their ease as seasoned fighters could, alert but wasting no strength in fretting.

  She settled on the broken stair, wrapped close in her mantle. Batan brought her a cup of wine, spiced and steaming hot, and a loaf of bread that must have been brought from the city. There was cheese baked in it, still warm, savory with herbs and bits of sausage. She ate every scrap, and sipped the wine slowly, until she was warm from her center outward.

  Batan watched her, smiling slightly, as the twilight deepened and the stars bloomed overhead. In a little while both moons would rise together, but now there was only a gold-and-crimson glow along the eastern horizon.

  His regard was deeply respectful, but offered more, if she would take it. If she had been another woman, she might have welcomed the warmth. But she was the cold daughter of the Sun, who carried the god’s fire in her, but took none of it for herself.

  She drew her cloak more tightly about her and shifted a little away from him. He shrugged, then smiled ruefully. He did not retreat to the greater conviviality of his comrades.

  He was guarding her. She decided to allow it. When the fight came, if it came, she would need his strong arm and his skill in weaponry, until the trap was sprung.

  They all settled to wait. The light in the east swelled so slowly that it was barely perceptible. Then the blood-red arc of Greatmoon’s rim lifted above the horizon. Brightmoon blazed in its wake.

  The silence was absolute. The phantom city grew stronger, more real, in that twinned light. No shadow came. Nothing stirred but the wind and the crashing of the waves.

  Merian felt herself slipping into a doze. She shook herself awake. He was on the other side of dream, calling to her. But she could not answer. Not tonight. Not without betraying them all.

  NINETEEN

  AS THE MOONS CLIMBED THE SKY, SHADOW CREPT TO COVER them. It seemed at first like mist or cloud, but it was too deep, its edges too distinct. It was like a curtain drawn across the moons.

  The dimmer their light grew, the more campfires seemed to burn within the ruined walls. The city of shadows was stronger. It was feeding on old magic sunk deep in the earth, tapping roots that had grown there in times before time. It was stronger than Merian now, and had grown apart from her. It no longer drew from her strength.

  There was danger in that, but no more, surely, than she had courted in baiting this trap. The fabric of the world was tearing. Things were pressing on it, seeking entry from without. Every instinct screamed at her to raise wards against it, but she must not. She did not want to keep it out. She wanted to draw it in, trap it, and if possible destroy it.

  The tone of the waiting had sharpened. The darkness grew deeper, though the moons rose higher. The sea battered the cliff-wall. She could taste the salt of spray.

  They came in the deepest night, when the only light was a struggling flicker of firelight. They rode through the tatters of the world’s walls, an army of darkness mounted on beasts like nothing this world had seen.

  The riders were human. Sworn and bound to darkness though they were, they were men. They were not mages. They were as mortal as men could be. The shadow was darkness absolute—but these riders had not wrought it. They wielded it, perhaps served it, but it was not theirs as the illusion of a city was hers.

  They fell on it with a bombardment of weapons so strange that they caught Merian off guard. Siege-engines, even mage-bolts, she would have known how to face: feigned the proper response of mortal walls, and allowed them slowly to crumble and fall. This was like a blast of dark flame. It seared through the illusion. The western side of the camp caught the edge of it and puffed to ash.

  There was no light, not even heat as she had known it. It simply destroyed whatever it touched.

  Batan’s men had no mage-sight. They could not know what had attacked them: their fires, dying too swiftly, revealed nothing but enveloping darkness. Those who had been in the western tents stumbled through the heaps of ash where they had been, naked and blind. The armor that they had worn, even to the garments beneath it, was gone, but the dark fire had harmed not a hair of their heads.

  The raiders had stopped. One of them raised a weapon like a thick spearhaft and cast from it another bolt of li
ghtless flame.

  This time Merian was ready. The wall that met it had the strength of stone. It trembled before the assault, cracking and crumbling.

  Batan barked orders to his men. Merian cast a magelight over them, shielded against the attackers, but clear enough that they could see as she saw. They spread across the field, weapons at the ready. As they moved, they doubled and trebled and doubled again. Her working had found its strength once more, rooted deep in this crag. Her armies of air were gathered. The living men took it for a dream, or understood and yet were not afraid.

  Pirates, she thought with something very like admiration. They always landed on their feet, whatever deck they fell to.

  The enemy broke down the walls, battering them relentlessly until not one stone lay atop another. If it astonished them to find an army arrayed against them, they betrayed nothing of it. The foremost rank raised their flame-spitting spears with a lack of haste that reeked of contempt. Swords and spears, even arrows, were no proof against them.

  The earth quivered underfoot. Far below, beneath even the ancient magic, fire surged and swelled like the sea: fire of earth, born of the sun’s fire.

  Merian called it up. She grasped it with both hands, the hand that was mortal flesh and the hand that was immortal gold. She drew it into herself, filling her body with living flame.

  Batan’s men howled and sprang to the charge. The enemy lowered their spears. Merian loosed the fire.

  They went up like torches. Their beasts, their armor, burned with a fierce white flame. The light ate them alive, devoured them whole. Nothing remained of them but a drift of ash, swirling in the wind.

  Merian stood astonished. The wind blew the cloud of ash away. There was nothing left, not one thing. She had destroyed them utterly. Even the shadow was gone; the stars were clean, and the moons shining as bright almost as day.