Tides of Darkness

by Judith Tarr

  Estarion had to grant him that. But he said, “You’ve taken a great deal on yourself.”

  “I did what I had to do,” said Daros. “As did you, when you gave your soul’s key into the hands of a man who could turn traitor in an instant.” Estarion stiffened. Daros bit back a small tight smile. “Now I’ve given him the key to the alliance. He’s in Sakhra, no doubt being worshiped as a god, but also, we can hope, holding its king to the oaths he swore.”

  Estarion raised his hands. Daros steadied himself for the blow, but Estarion seized him and pulled him into a bone-cracking embrace. “Damn you,” said the emperor. “Damn you. If my son grows up to be half the man and mage that you are, he’ll be the despair of everyone who loves him—and the salvation of a world.”

  Daros for once had no words to say. Estarion held him at arm’s length and shook him until his teeth rattled. “You have done better than I ever dreamed you would—and taken greater risks, at far higher cost to you, than you should ever have done.”

  “I had to,” said Daros. “There wasn’t anything else I could do.”

  “That may be,” Estarion said. “The gods know, no one else could have done it. Now come with me. My queen is waiting, and another whom you might like to meet.”

  Tanit did not waste time in words. She had been sitting with her scribes, going over the accounts, but at their coming, she rose and held out her arms. Daros never paused to think; he swept her up and spun her about and set her down as gently as if she had been made of glass.

  She was grinning as widely as he must be. “You look splendid,” she said.

  “And you,” he said. He looked her up and down. She was as slender as she had been when he first met her, lithe and strong. There was a light in her that had not been there before, a deep and singing joy whose cause watched him bright-eyed from the arms of his nurse.

  He looked like his mother. He was darker, that was to be expected; in fact he was much the same color as Daros. His hair was black and curling; his eyes were round and dark. He would be tall, Daros thought, and maybe he would have a keener profile than people were wont to have here.

  There was no gold in his hand. The Kasar had passed down in another line. But that mattered little to a mage’s eyes. He was mage-born—splendidly, gloriously so. Daros, meeting his eyes, felt as if he stared direct into the sun.

  The child crowed and held out his arms, as imperious as ever Sun-blood could be. Daros was an obedient servant: he took the child from his nurse and cradled him, not too inexpertly.

  “Menes,” Estarion said, “greet your cousin Indaros.”

  “’aros!” that half-year’s child declared. He grinned at Daros, baring a pair of teeth.

  Daros was literally held hostage: this latest heir of the Sun gripped a lock of his hair, as fascinated by its brightness as any other person in this world. Once Menes had examined it from all sides, he gnawed happily on it, and screamed when his nurse ventured to pry him loose.

  “Let him be,” said Daros. He did not raise his voice, but the lash of magic in it both drove back the nurse and silenced Menes’ howls. “And you, sir, may touch but not eat. I am for pretty, not for dinner.”

  Menes scowled, but Daros was a score of years ahead of him in both power and rebellion; and he had been shepherding magelings for a year of this world. Even a child of the Sun was no match for that.

  “Here’s another use for mages,” Daros said to the child’s father.

  “Surely you didn’t think mortals would be strong enough to raise this one.”

  “I had rather thought to do it myself,” Estarion said.

  “I hope you may,” Daros said.

  Estarion looked as if he would have said more, but wisdom forestalled him. Surely he of all people would know how uncertain the worlds could be.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DAROS HAD BEEN IN THIS WORLD FOR NIGH ON TWO OF ITS YEARS. How long it had been under his own sun, he did not know, unless he could believe his dreams. That world had barely completed half a year, passing from autumn into winter and from winter into spring.

  The first dream of her had been so real, so vivid, that he had been sure for a long while after that it had been no dream at all. Then, just as he began to believe that he had deceived himself in everything—her presence, the love she had given him—he had dreamed of her again. For her it had been a much shorter time, and much less fraught with doubts and desperation. She was Sun-blood. She never doubted herself.

  It was comforting, in its way—as the sun’s heat could be, even when it flayed flesh from bones. After that he accepted that she would come when the dreams allowed, and tried not to drive himself wild with waiting for her.

  On the night after he came back from his embassy into the north, Daros dreamed of Merian again. She had only come to him twice in all of that year, and now a third time she passed through the gate of dreams.

  She was unusually distracted; she was as glad as ever to see him, but she had little to say. Her voice kept trailing off.

  He tried to charm her. He told her tales that he had heard on his journey, then when those failed to draw her attention, he began to tell her of the journey itself, of the kings, the alliances, the making of mages. But she was not listening. After a while he let himself fall into silence, and simply held her.

  She sighed and cradled her head on his shoulder. He stroked the golden extravagance of her hair, and kissed the lids over those beautiful eyes. Her profile was as pure as ivory against the sun-darkened bronze of his skin.

  She stayed so all through the night, so close and so vividly real that when he woke in the morning, he could have sworn that her scent still lingered. Of course she was not there, nor had been except in his dream.

  The night after that, at last, the shadow came back. It raided a village upriver, where the barley crop had been unusually rich that year, and its harvest had filled the storehouses. The shadow’s servants took those stores, all of them, and blasted the storehouses to ash; then they raided the village through wards that had grown lax with time and disbelief, and took all the men and every woman of bearing age, and left the children to drown in their own blood.

  Daros had never had a weak stomach. But when he saw that heap of bodies, each rent limb from limb, hacked and mutilated out of all recognition, he choked on bile. Most of his magelings had gone green; one or two were already retching.

  Estarion, old warrior that he was, walked expressionless among the carnage. “I’ve seen worse,” he said after Daros nerved himself to follow, “but not by much.”

  “It’s a message,” Daros said a little thickly. “Those years of attacks—they were only raids. This is war.”

  “Maybe so,” said Estarion, “but if it really is war, they’ll be wanting to end it quickly—sweep over us and destroy us and be gone. They’ll be conquering worlds, not simply villages.”

  “Maybe they are,” Daros said. “Maybe they need this world more for its grain and slaves than for its service to oblivion. They left it alone for a while to grow and ripen. Now comes the harvest.”

  Estarion’s glance was almost respectful. “That’s an appalling thought, but it’s frightfully logical. There’s no other reason for this world to have been subjected only to raids for so long. It’s been feeding the armies.”

  “And in letting it be, they told us that there are other such worlds, slave-worlds.” Daros stopped. “What if we could raid the raiders?”

  “You think we can track them to their stronghold? We can’t get past the wall of darkness that surrounds this world.”

  “We might,” said Daros, “if we attached ourselves to the next party of raiders.”

  “Are you saying we should let ourselves be taken?”

  “Why not?”

  Estarion cuffed him, and not lightly, either. “Because, puppy, without us this world has no human mages of any skill at all, and the cats, being cats, may not choose to go on protecting every town and village.”

  “Not if you stay and
I go. I’ll leave half of my magelings here to bolster you, and take those who are strong enough to stand with me.” And, Daros thought, there was another thing he could try, but he was not ready to tell Estarion of that. It would involve too many explanations, and confessions that Merian’s kinsman might not be pleased to hear.

  “And what then?” Estarion demanded. “You’ll go into darkness, you and those children, and very likely die there, blinded and in chains.”

  “I might,” said Daros, “but I’ve been there. I know what to expect; what to guard against. If the Mage will help—and it well might—I’ll be safe enough, considering.”

  “Yes, considering that that’s the most insanely ill-advised plan I’ve heard in gods know how long.”

  “I can see that it’s mad,” Daros said, “but I don’t think it’s as unwise as that. How long can we hold on here? Shouldn’t we try to end it sooner rather than later?”

  “Certainly it will end for you,” Estarion said.

  “Then tell me what else we can do!” Daros said with a flash of heat.

  “These people are being kept like cattle. Worlds are falling all around them. Theirs will go in the end, when there’s nothing else left to conquer. No wards or simple magics can stop it.”

  “And you can?”

  “‘Know your enemy.”’ Daros recited the words in the singsong of the schoolroom. “That lesson I learned—even I, the despair of my tutors. What do we know of this enemy? Where does he come from? Who leads him? Even what face he wears—has any of these people ever seen it?”

  “None who survived,” Estarion said.

  “None of them was a mage until I came to meddle with them. I went to the dark world once; I came back. I’ll come back again.”

  Estarion stood silent in the sweet stench of death. In those few moments, his face had aged years. “There are worse things than death,” he said.

  “This world will know them,” said Daros, “if I don’t do this.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Estarion said.

  Daros sucked in a breath, but held his tongue. This was as much as he would gain, for now. He clung to what patience he had, and followed Estarion back through the heaps of the dead toward the huddle of guards and mages that had accompanied them from Waset. All of them, save only Menkare the prince, had retreated as far as they could from the horror in front of them.

  Estarion’s glance was eloquent. Even if Daros could endure the enemy’s world, these children could not. They were born to sunlight; the dark was their greatest fear.

  Daros turned his back—as great an insolence as he had ever offered this man—and closed his mind. He would do this thing, whether the emperor willed or no.

  It was late in the day before Daros was able to speak to the queen. She was closeted with her council, and then with Estarion; and Daros had preoccupations of his own. His mages were in sore need of comfort.

  “It’s different,” Nefret said. She had not wept on the field, nor did she in the palace, in the room in which they had gathered. She looked as if the tears had been burned out of her by the same fire that had consumed the village. “When we were mortal, it was terrible. Now that we have this gift—this curse—it goes beyond that. We can feel—we can see—”

  “Shields,” Daros said. “Remember what I taught you. You must wall your mind and protect the fire within you.”

  “And then?” she demanded. “Then it eats us from the inside out?”

  “Then it makes you stronger,” he said. “I made you for this; I trained you to fight this war. You are strong enough. If you had not been, you could never have endured the gift that I gave you.”

  “Maybe we don’t want it,” she said.

  Some of the others murmured agreement. He lashed them with a bolt of magic. They gasped. None flinched—that much he was pleased to see. “What I have given,” he said to them, “I can take away. But have a care! If I take it, I may take everything that makes you yourself. Seven souls, you believe you have. This power is woven with them all.”

  “The gods are not kind,” said Kaptah the priest from Henen. He was not one of those who had agreed with Nefret. “Lord, did they strike elsewhere? Has that knowledge been given you?”

  “They struck villages near Ombos and Hiwa, and Imu in the delta,” Daros said. “But they struck no cities, and no villages within sight of cities.”

  “But they will,” Menkare said. “If this is war, these skirmishes will come more often and more strongly, the longer they go on.”

  “Yes,” said Daros. “Tell me, prince of Gebtu. Would you come with me to the enemy’s stronghold, and take the war to him there?”

  “The enemy is on the other side of the sky,” said Menkare.

  “So he is,” Daros said.

  Menkare thought about that. A slow smile bloomed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s absolutely mad. I would do it, my lord.”

  The others glanced at one another. “And I,” said Kaptah.

  Ramse, the elder of the two priests, shook his head, though not in refusal. “We can’t all go. Someone has to stay and defend our cities.”

  “Half of you will remain,” Daros said, “and look for obedience to the Lord Seramon. The rest go with me—but only if you understand, fully and freely, what we will do. We will let ourselves be captured, bound and carried away. It’s no failing of courage if you refuse. The defense of this land is a great charge in itself—and if I fail in what I do, it may be the greatest of all.”

  “We understand,” Nefret said. Her eyes were burning. Her husband, her brothers—the enemy had taken them. She had no real hope of seeing them again, no wise woman would, but even the prospect, however remote, struck fire in her spirit.

  The queen received Daros between a much lengthened council and a newly fearful sunset. She had her son with her, drowsing in his cradle, and his nurse and the chief of her maids in quiet attendance.

  She knew why he had come: it was in her glance. Yet she smiled, because the sight of him made her glad. “I missed you,” she said after he had paid her reverence and sat at her feet. “Waset is a much brighter place when you are in it.”

  “There is no queen like you in all the kingdoms of the river,” Daros said.

  She laughed a little. “Oh, hush! My husband will never believe it, but any spy would think that we were lovers.”

  “That we will never be,” Daros said, “and that’s well—for lovers are common enough, but a friend is a great rarity.”

  “I should hate to lose you,” she said, suddenly somber.

  “I don’t intend to die,” he said. “My lord and I, and my new-made mages—we are going to save your world. We were brought here for that. We will do it.”

  “My dear friend,” she said tenderly. “Don’t say that just to comfort me. I know what happened out there. The dark is back, and worse than ever. You’ll catch blame for that, you and my lord.”

  “Not if we can help it,” said Daros.

  “It was bad. Wasn’t it? He wouldn’t let me go. I’m still somewhat out of temper with him because of it.”

  There was no eluding her clear eye. “It was bad,” he said. “It won’t be as bad again. We’ve strengthened the wards that had grown lax, and secured the granaries and the cattle-pens. Some of the fields not yet harvested will be lost, but there’s no helping that.”

  “No, there is not.” She sighed, but she was neither discouraged nor particularly weary. It was the sigh of one taking up a burden again after a lengthy respite. “So we’re at war again.”

  “I know a way to end it.”

  She raised a brow. She knew what he would say, but he had to say it.

  “If you will give me leave, I’ll take six of my magelings and follow the enemy to his own world, and do my best to stop him there.”

  “You, and six new-hatched magelings.” She did not sound too terribly incredulous. “Against—hundreds? In the dark?”

  “Light is their most bitter enemy. My magic is born of the light.
Let us find their center, the one who leads them, and we’ll destroy him. Then if we can set their Mage free, they lose all their magic; they become no more than mortal. We’ll have them—bound to their own world, unable to leave it, to raid or bring war to any beyond them.”

  “And the dark that they serve? Will it leave us then?”

  That, Daros could not answer. Not exactly. “Without their strength to sustain it and the Mage to drive it onward, it will at least stop advancing. Then simple wards should hold it off—maybe forever. Certainly for a very long time.”

  “Still a death sentence,” she said, “after all.”

  “Maybe not for you or your son, or your son’s sons. Maybe not for thousands of years.”

  “Do you reckon that a risk worth taking?”

  “Seven lives, to save a world? There’s nothing lost if we fail, but everything to gain if we succeed.”

  “Seven lives,” she said. “Six godlings and a god. He forbade it. And you come to me?”

  “He said that he would think on it.”

  “Ah,” she said. She closed her eyes. “Then so will I.”

  Daros began to rise, but she held him down. Her grip was strong.

  “He loves you like a son,” she said. “He still grieves for the child of his body who was lost for a foolish and empty cause, long ago. To send you to almost certain death—that will tear at his heart. But if he judges that there is no other hope, he will do it. He will let you go.”

  Daros said nothing. She did not need to hear his doubts.

  No matter; she read them in his face. “Promise me, dear friend. Do nothing until he’s done thinking on it.”

  “There may not be that much time,” Daros said.

  “Can’t you trust him? Can you trust anyone but yourself to do what is necessary?”

  Daros flushed. “I am not—”

  “You are as arrogant a young pup as was ever whelped in a princely house.” Her voice was mild, her tone without censure. “Give him three days. He will have done all his thinking by then—and so will I.”