Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  “You can define it no better?”

  Menelian shook his head.

  “Nor tell me how I may use it?”

  Another negative: Calandryll felt his hands clench unbidden in angry fists. Bracht was right—to deal with sorcery was to wander into a maze of unknown proportions, of tortuous circumventions designed solely to deceive and confuse.

  “Only that it is there,” he heard Menelian say, “a power beyond my comprehension, larger than my understanding. Whether it has always been there, or whether you have been gifted . . .”

  “Gifted?” His fists rose briefly, descending hard against the table. Scrolls and parchments jumped on the impact. Menelian started back in his chair, alarmed at the fury in Calandryll’s voice. “How gifted? With some power . . . some primal energy . . . beyond your comprehension? Beyond my using? Is that a gift? You tell me I am no longer what I believe myself to be and say that is a gift?”

  “You are still yourself,” Menelian returned softly. “And I believe it a gift.”

  “Bracht taught me to use this.” Calandryll slapped angrily at the hilt of his sword. “That was a gift. You voice only riddles.”

  “I tell you only what I perceived, and what I can.” The sorcerer’s voice was apologetic. “And you are not changed.”

  “No?” Calandryll shook his head helplessly. “But I am no longer what I was.”

  “Is any man?” asked Menelian. “Do we not all change? Do we not all of us become something other than what we were, and yet remain ourselves? Why are you so . . .” he began to say “frightened,” but amended it to “. . . angry at this?”

  His tone was conciliatory, and on his face was an expression of genuine confusion. Calandryll sighed, not certain himself. His mouth stretched in a sour smile and he shrugged as he answered honestly, “I am not sure. Forgive my ire? I believed myself an ordinary man, but now I hear I possess some power neither you nor I understand. That would seem to . . . set me apart, to make me . . . different.”

  “You are,” said Menelian, slowly and solemnly, “you and Bracht and Katya, Tekkan—all of you are different to the common ruck. Does this quest you undertake not render you different? I think perhaps the gods themselves imbued you with this power.”

  “And shall they teach me what it is? Shall they show me how to use it?”

  “Mayhap they shall.” The sorcerer nodded. “I cannot say; only that it seems a power of almost godly proportions.”

  Calandryll lurched back in his chair, staring at the wizard with rank disbelief in his eyes. Then he laughed; once, and cynically.

  “Am I now become a god?”

  “Not that, I think,” Menelian said, “but perhaps their vessel.”

  “I’d sooner be a man.”

  “Most would prefer more.”

  “Not I.” Calandryll shook his head. “I’d be myself and nothing else, nothing more.”

  Now Menelian shrugged, leaning forward, his dark eyes intent. “I’ve heard your story,” he said gently. “When this quest began you were a prince of Secca, destined to become a priest of Dera. You fled that fate and learned to use a blade along the way—that, you say, was a gift. When you wore Rhythamun’s stone you summoned up storms, sent waves against your enemies—you accepted that as a gift. You are no longer that scholarly youth who rummaged through your father’s library—and yet you are still Calandryll den Karynth. Perhaps now even more yourself; not what your father would have you be, but your own man. I say to you that even though I do not understand what I saw in you, it is a gift!”

  Calandryll watched the earnest face with narrowed eyes, not doubting that the sorcerer spoke candidly-wanting to believe him, to accept. And yet, lingering like the fading aftermath of magic, he felt that sense of loss—as if, with the donation of this knowledge, something had been taken from him. He could not set words to it: it was a thing indefinable as love. Perhaps in time it would fade. Perhaps in time he would accept; perhaps even learn what it was Menelian had seen within him.

  “Mayhap,” he allowed reluctantly.

  “Listen,” Menelian urged, still resting forward across the table, his elbows crushing an antique parchment, unnoticed, “I was born to farmers in the Ryde, folk neither poor nor wealthy. I was their first son; I had a sister and two brothers, and at the age of seven years a sorcerer came by our farm and discerned my talent—I was brought to Nhur-jabal to learn the art. I was taken from my family and all I knew to a strange city, where strange men educated me in things I barely understood. For a year I wept each night, longing for the life I’d known and cursing those who’d taken me from it. They explained the need to me, but I did not—could not, then!—accept what they said. But that was my destiny—I had the occult talent, and that power decided my future.

  “In time, when I had reached a better understanding of my talent, they offered me a choice—they could remove my power and return me to the life I had left, or I could join the ranks of the Tyrant’s sorcerers. As it is with all adepts, I was allowed a year in which to decide.” He smiled, plucking at his robe. “I accepted—as will you, in time. Sometimes we have no choice: the gods decide our fate and it is hard to ignore their wishes.”

  “And are you happy now?” demanded Calandryll. “Or had you sooner remained a farm boy?”

  “I am happy.” Menelian nodded. “And my family, too. They are proud to name their son a mage.”

  “In time, then,” Calandryll allowed, “perhaps I, too, shall accept this.”

  “It is there,” Menelian said, “in you. You have no more choice than did I.”

  “A plaything of the gods?” Calandryll murmured, though less angrily now. “Their—what did you say?—vessel?”

  “Mayhap.” The sorcerer shrugged. “I saw no evil in you, and so I think you hold a power for great good.”

  “Mayhap,” Calandryll echoed, “do they but reveal its usage to me.”

  “If the gods gave it, then they will, in their own good time.” The Kand smiled, more confidently now. “But still you are a man and I think perhaps you would benefit from such sustenance as men enjoy. Shall I send for wine?”

  Calandryll nodded enthusiastically and the sorcerer rose, going to the door, asking that the servant waiting outside bring them a flask. It came in moments, a fine red vintage: Calandryll downed a goblet in two swift gulps. Menelian refilled his cup and looked to the window. Calandryll followed his eyes, seeing Bracht and Katya, framed like figures in a portrait; they were laughing.

  “Shall you tell your comrades?” asked the mage.

  Calandryll swallowed, following his gaze, and felt a pang of doubt. Would such revelation change his friendship with Bracht? The freesword appeared to have accepted Menelian, but still he held little love, and less trust, for sorcery and its practitioners. His approbation had been hard-enough won and Calandryll found the thought of its loss unbearable. He shook his head slowly, doubtfully.

  “Not yet, I think. After all, what is there to tell? That I possess some unknown power?”

  Menelian saw the direction of his thinking and ducked his head once in agreement. “Bracht holds sorcery in poor regard,” he murmured, “and you value his comradeship. But that’s surely won now—would this knowledge change that?”

  “It might,” Calandryll said, “and I’d not take that chance.”

  “So be it,” said the wizard. “The decision is yours.”

  Calandryll smiled his thanks and emptied his goblet, gesturing at the cluttered table. “Do we continue, then? Or admit that your library holds scant information on revenants?”

  Menelian’s face clouded at mention of that hunter and he sighed. “Let us eat,” he suggested. “Few enough volumes remain that one of us may peruse them ere twilight.”

  “Save you object, I’ll leave that task to you.” Calandryll rose, stretching. “I’d exercise this afternoon on solid ground.”

  “Willingly.” The sorcerer gestured his agreement, pushing back his chair. “So, let us call your comrades in and see
what my kitchen can offer us.”

  IT offered a most excellent luncheon of soup, thick and gamy, then roasted beef with what fresh vegetables the season allowed, followed by several cheeses. Enough wine was drunk that all felt cheered, despite the news that Menelian’s library had provided no useful knowledge of Anomius’s creation. The sorcerer remained a gracious host, but Calandryll noticed that he was careful to avoid extravagance in the attentions he paid Katya, respecting Bracht’s prior claim, though when neither observed him his eyes were drawn admiringly to the warrior woman. It occurred to Calandryll that their quest was likely to bring them into such situations wherever they landed, and that Bracht’s prickly jealousy was likely to flare up on each occasion. He determined to raise the matter with his friend at some suitable time, out of the woman’s hearing.

  He found the opportunity as they practiced their swordwork.

  Katya joined them for a time, engaging him in a bout that Bracht declared drawn, then expressed a wish to refresh herself. Her desire was communicated to Menelian, who immediately sent servants to prepare a bath, and she disappeared into the house, leaving Calandryll alone with the freesword. They fought awhile, carefully without practice armor, the exertion welcome after the long months at sea, with only the limited space of the foredeck on which to engage. Calandryll gave himself over eagerly to the exercise, aware that he was still no match for Bracht, but nonetheless flattered by the Kern’s laconic approval as he showed himself adept enough for most swordsmen.

  Despite the sun, the afternoon was chill, their breath steaming as they parried and riposted, their blades meeting to fill the garden with ringing sound. Calandryll worked until his muscles were loosened, and then, urged on by the seemingly tireless Kern, until they began to ache. He felt sweat run moist down ribs and chest, beginning to pant as the freesword pressed him, driving him back until bushes brushed his shoulders and Bracht, smiling, gestured a respite.

  “You’re a trifle rusty,” the Kern said, grinning, “but you’ll do.”

  “My thanks.” Calandryll lowered his blade and wiped his brow, wondering how to voice his concern. Directly, he decided: “I’d speak with you of Katya.”

  Bracht stared at him a moment, his gaze suspicious, then grunted his assent. “As we fight,” he said curtly, returning to the attack.

  “I spoke with Menelian of your interest.” Calandryll turned the lunge, finding his riposte countered. “He curbs his own.”

  “Good.” Bracht feinted, the flat of his blade tapping Calandryll’s ribs.

  “But as I told you—to fault his admiration is hard.”

  He succeeded in evading a second blow, even scoring a point as he countered.

  “Aye. So?”

  Steel clashed. They closed, face-to-face: their strength was evenly matched, but Bracht was the more deft, withdrawing suddenly enough that Calandryll stumbled, hard put to repel the fresh assault his friend commenced.

  “It will likely happen again.”

  He danced back, intent on drawing the Kern into a mistake, failing. He wondered if Bracht’s blows grew fiercer.

  “Mayhap.”

  “Men will always look at her. Seek to win her.”

  “She’s mine. Or shall be.”

  “Aye.” Sparks flew as their swords met. “None question that.”

  “Best they do not.”

  The Kern’s tone was threatening. Calandryll sprang aside as he thrust, the flat of his shortsword striking Bracht’s ribs.

  “And best you curb your temper.”

  “My temper?” Surprise showed in the dark eyes.

  “Aye, your temper. Do you fly into a rage each time a man pays Katya some small attention, we’ll earn ourselves more enemies than even your blade may defeat.”

  He parried a blow and found himself forced down the garden. The freesword’s strokes strengthened: he felt a doubt, tempted to call a halt before real injury resulted.

  “You think I’ve a temper?”

  Bracht eased away, frowning slightly. Calandryll felt concern begin to fade, replaced with a desire to laugh.

  “Dera, man! Where Katya’s involved, aye!”

  “Mayhap I have,” the freesword admitted, and thrust abruptly forward. “And I’d fight any man for her.”

  Calandryll was taken by surprise. His blade was flung uselessly out to the side, Bracht’s suddenly at his throat. He found himself staring into eyes gone hard and cold. “I’ve no doubt,” he gasped.

  The cool press of the steel was gone in the instant it would have taken to sever his windpipe. Bracht stepped back, saluting.

  “You speak true, however,” he declared, and shrugged. “I find it hard to watch another pay her court.”

  The moment of outrage was passed; Calandryll sighed and said, “Even though you know she ignores it?”

  “Even so,” Bracht returned. “In Cuan na’For such a thing is not done. There are . . . rules, customs.”

  “We are not in Cuan na’For,” Calandryll pointed out, “but Kandahar. And soon—Dera willing!—we shall be on our way to Lysse. There, a woman is free until formally betrothed.”

  “Like your Nadama?” Bracht asked.

  Calandryll was vaguely surprised that he felt no pang of regret at the blunt question. Nadama seemed unimportant now: a memory dredged from his past, dim, his feelings for her, once so passionate, now remote as some near-forgotten impression of childhood. He nodded and said, “Aye. Like Nadama.”

  “And Katya will not permit such announcement until our quest is done. Until Rhythamun is defeated and we bring the Arcanum to Vanu.”

  Bracht ducked his head and sighed. Calandryll said, “Such is your agreement,” thinking that his comrade’s understanding was fashioned by desire, shaped by his own emotions: the precise agreement was that until then Bracht would not formally press his suit. It seemed the wiser course to omit that correction.

  “Your southern lands have strange ways,” Bracht grunted, then grinned ruefully. “No matter—so be it. I shall endeavor to curb this temper you see in me.”

  “For the sake of our quest,” Calandryll said tentatively.

  “Aye,” Bracht agreed, “for the quest’s sake. But it will not be easy. To watch foppish southerners lusting after her. . .?” He shook his head.

  Calandryll, not entirely pleased by his description of southerners, murmured, “Mayhap they’ll not. But if they should, best you not make enemies of them.”

  Bracht chuckled then and flung an arm about his shoulders. “I do not count you foppish, my friend. And you’ve my word I’ll set a tight rein on my irritation.”

  “Good,” Calandryll returned, his spirits lifting. “Now—do we resume our practice?”

  “No.” Bracht glanced at the sky, darkening now as twilight approached, cloud driven by a wind off the sea building over the city in layers of fuliginous rack. Inside the house, lanterns gleamed. “Evening nears, and Katya would go down to the harbor.”

  With all that had happened, Calandryll had thought little of the warboat and he assented readily. They went first to the library, where Menelian sat among his books, though still with scant success, he advised them. Katya found them there, trailing perfume from her bath, her fresh-washed hair gleaming like white gold in the lanterns’ light. On her arrival, the wizard closed the tome he studied and declared his intention of accompanying them.

  “In Vishat’yi I am likely your best protection against the Chaipaku,” he explained. “Even the Brotherhood would hesitate to attack one of the Tyrant’s sorcerers.”

  None argued with him at that and they donned cloaks, going out again into the streets of the city. At this latening hour, the sun was fallen beyond the western rim of the cleft, and lamps were lit, but still the sky was light enough they gained a clearer impression of the place. It was far larger than Mherut’yi and more imposing than Kharasul, its terraced streets busy with folk who parted deferentially at sight of Menelian, whose cloak, like his robe, was sewn with the symbols of his office. Some calle
d greetings that he answered courteously, and none appeared much troubled by the war. Indeed, save for the gaunt outlines of the catapults along the heights, the barricades about the harbor, and an occasional patrol, there was no sense of a city facing siege or attack, but rather of a prosperous settlement going about its usual business. Merchants extolled the virtues of their wares and tavern doors stood open, revealing a bustling trade; from eating houses came the smells of cooking food, joining the pungent odor of the narcotic tobacco that seemed the hallmark of all the Kandaharian towns.

  “When first the news came there was a great to-do,” Menelian elaborated when Calandryll questioned the seemingly carefree atmosphere. “Quindar ek’Nyle was in his element—he had half the population building catapults and mangonels, the other erecting barricades. And when that was done, militia squads were organized, but save for the absence of trade ships the war has not yet touched us and mayhap it never will. After a week or two of rumors folk settled back to their normal lives.”

  Calandryll, who had studied histories of the Lyssian wars, found this odd at first. In his homeland, a city apprehensive of attack would show none of the gaiety he saw around him. But that, he decided, was because the cities of Lysse were walled, each ruled by its own Domm, whose fortress, in effect, the city became. In Kandahar, the Tyrant ruled alone, and he thought that perhaps the folk of Vishat’yi delegated their concern to that personage; he wondered which system was the better.

  In other circumstances—in his previous life—he would have found such speculation fascinating and sought to draw Menelian into debate on the matter, arguing the pros and cons of monocracy versus republicanism, but now such philosophical considerations seemed idle. Far greater currents stirred and, more immediately, personal danger was ever-present. Even under the sorcerer’s protection, he was not entirely confident the Chaipaku would hold off—assuming the Brotherhood learned of his and his comrades’ presence. He made that assumption: from past experience, it seemed the assassins had ways beyond his comprehension of gaining knowledge, and by now, he thought, they would surely know their prey was in Vishat’yi.