Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Ulandra blushed and had to stop herself from giggling. No more wine for me, she thought. I must keep a clear head, so I can watch out for Salesin.

  Her corset was too tight to allow her to eat much, but she managed to nibble on some grapes and a bit of cheese at the refreshment table. She stood there, balancing a plate, enjoying the swirl of color on the dance floor, swaying slightly to the lilting strains of music from the orchestra.

  As she watched, Prince Adranan bowed deeply, then twirled one of her ladies-in-waiting to the strains of a baracole. The Prince was quick on his feet, despite his beer-barrel substance.

  He bounced and hopped and his stomach performed its own bouncing, swaying movements. Ulandra almost laughed aloud, but covered her mouth and turned it into a cough.

  The dance music stopped, and the dancers bowed and curtsied. Conversation in the room swelled to a muted roar.

  Without warning, silence fell. The entire ballroom grew unnaturally still.

  Confused, Ulandra turned to the marquise to ask her what had happened, but the silence was gone, replaced by an undertone of whispers and titters from the crowd. Ulandra stood there, her mouth half open, and saw the courtiers bowing deeply, in succession, a wave of bowing that rippled along like a whitecap at sea. She stiffened, and something seemed to clench inside her, like a corset squeezing her heart and lungs. Oh, no!

  She glimpsed her husband’s black head, and then— —time seemed to freeze, along with heart and breath, as she caught a glimpse of red hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure. ’Tis the countess! Denmara Goljone! His whore.

  She felt the blood leave her face, and for a moment she swayed, light-headed. As bad as Salesin had ever been, she’d never dreamed he might do something like this. Escorting his mistress to a royal ball was so far outside the bounds of civilized behavior that Ulandra had no idea what to do.

  Her mind demanded that she leave, but her body didn’t seem to want to obey her. She stood there, unable to move, staring at the countess.

  She was a beautiful woman, tiny and petite. Ulandra had expected her to appear cheap, trashy, but she was dressed with exquisite taste. Ulandra’s dress bared more skin than her ivory satin gown. If she was wearing cosmetics, they had been applied so expertly it was impossible to tell. Even though she was probably older than Salesin by half a dozen years, she looked young and fresh. Virginal.

  The countess smiled, displaying perfect little teeth. It was a shy, sweet smile.

  I must get out of here, Ulandra thought desperately. I must get away. But how?

  The marquise was looking at her, obviously at a loss for words. The Princess shook her head warningly, then forced words past the knot in her throat. “I must retire,” she said. “I am … indisposed.”

  “Your Highness—”

  The Princess shook her head. “Stay here,” she said. “I command you. If anyone asks, say I stepped out for a breath of air and will be back any moment.”

  The marquise dropped a quick curtsy. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Ulandra’s heart was hammering, but she forced herself to take as deep a breath as possible and scan the room for an in-conspicuous exit. There it was: a door set over on the west side, not too far from where she was standing. It was half hidden by a curtained alcove, where ladies went to make quick adjustments to slipping garters or pinching shoes.

  Ulandra forced her feet to move. She held her head high, but was careful not to make eye contact with anyone as she moved. She’d learned this trick long ago—just unfocus her eyes slightly and gaze at necks or hairlines.

  As she moved, hands full of her satin skirts, trying to pick her course carefully so she wouldn’t brush against any tables, servants, or guests, Ulandra could feel Salesin’s gaze on her back, penetrating her like a dagger of ice. She forced herself to keep moving, praying she wouldn’t stumble and fall. The ballroom floor was white and black marble, patterned like a game board, and highly polished. Don’t fall, keep moving Don’t fall …

  As she reached the alcove, then the door, she risked a quick glance back, and saw several of her ladies-in-waiting following her. No! Go back! I don’t want you!

  She opened the door as narrowly as she could manage, given the breadth of her skirts, and lunged through it. Once through, she looked back at her ladies, shook her head slightly, then mouthed “No.”

  They stopped, milling in confusion, and she closed the door in their faces.

  Breathing a long sigh of relief, the Princess turned away, allowing herself to slump back against the door. It was hard to say which hurt worse—her throbbing head or her equally throbbing feet.

  Ulandra regarded the corridor and decided she was in a part of the palace she had seldom visited, in the area near the King’s audience chamber. She hesitated, confused, wondering how to get back to her chambers.

  As she stood peering down the long, vaulted stone corridor, a voice spoke from behind her. “Allow me to escort you, Your Highness.”

  Ulandra whirled around so fast her high-heeled slippers skidded on the polished floor. She staggered and would have fallen if the man had not stepped forward and caught her elbow, steadying her. As soon as she had regained her balance, he let go, stepped back, and bowed deeply. “Forgive my importunity, Your Highness. I feared you might come to harm.”

  His voice was deep and beautifully modulated, though he spoke Pelanese with an accent. He was a tall man, with deep-set black eyes. His skull was shaven and he wore a robe the color of fresh-spilled blood.

  His black eyes were intense as they held hers for long seconds. There was something there … something she almost recognized. Something …

  Ulandra shuddered. “I beg pardon, Your Highness!” the man said quickly. “I did not mean to offend.”

  The Princess shook her head, cleared her throat, and managed to say, “No, no, there’s nothing wrong. I was just leaving the ball early, and I found myself in this part of the palace, which I do not recognize.”

  The man—he had to be the new priest, Varlon—bowed again. “Allow me to escort you back to the royal apartments, Your Highness.”

  Gravely, he offered her his arm, and Ulandra took it. “My name,” he said softly as they walked, “is Varlon. I have come to court at the King’s request to teach him about the philosophy of my homeland.”

  “I have heard of you, Master Varlon,” Ulandra said.

  “Where is your homeland?”

  “On the western continent, in Amavav. North of Kata.”

  Ulandra’s knowledge of geography was sketchy, at best.

  “Amaran?”

  He shook his head, his trained voice as smooth as the polished stone floor. “Amaran is north of Amavav.”

  “You said, ‘philosophy.’ You mean your faith? The King wishes to convert?”

  “Of course we have a faith, Your Highness. But we also have a philosophy that anyone may practice, no matter what deity they worship.”

  “Oh.” In her exhaustion, she tripped on her skirt and nearly fell again. Once more he was there to steady her.

  “Your Highness, please do not think me importunate or forward. But I sense your pain. Perhaps you might remove your footwear?”

  Ulandra glanced up at him, a rebuke forming on her lips, but she didn’t say it. Varlon’s eyes held nothing but kind concern. Better to take off the wretched slippers rather than fall on my face, she decided, and, holding onto the priest’s arm for balance, stepped out of first one, then the other, shoe. The cold, polished stone soothed her abused feet.

  Varlon bent over and retrieved the shoes. “I’ll carry these for you, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you.” Ulandra picked her skirts again, and they went on. Finally, they reached the door to the royal apartments, and she held out her hand for the slippers. “Accept my gratitude, Varlon, for your kindness.”

  He bowed, placing the slippers into her hands. “May I enter, Your Highness? I would like to speak with you about something of import.”

  Of course not! Ul
andra thought, but his black eyes held hers, steady and piercing. She found herself nodding. “You may enter.”

  When they were in her parlor, she sank onto the small brocade sofa, barely repressing an unladylike sigh of relief. Her corset was still too tight, but sitting down was bliss. “What did you wish to speak to me about …” She hesitated, “Varlon?” She frowned. “I do not mean to be overfamiliar, but I do not know what the proper address is for a holy man of your country.”

  “In my land, a priest is called ‘Your Reverence,’ Your Highness.”

  “Very well, Your Reverence.”

  The priest leaned forward in his seat, those compelling eyes glittering like hard coal. “Princess, I know what happened tonight. I deplore the disrespect shown to you, both tonight and recently.”

  Ulandra’s eyes widened. How could he, an outlander, know all this? But long years training in decorum won out.

  She merely inclined her head to indicate she was listening.

  “Your Highness, my god is a powerful god, and He tells me many things. He tells me that He has blessed you. You are high in His favor.”

  “Blessed?” she echoed blankly.

  “Yes, Your Highness. Blessed.”

  “But I worship the Goddess. Why should your god bless me?”

  Reaching over, the priest picked up a candle that stood in its holder on the nearby table. Leaning forward, he held it so that its light illuminated his face, especially his eyes.

  “Listen to me, Your Highness.” His voice was deep, soothing and compelling. It was as easy to listen to as the chords of a wyr-harp plucked by a virtuoso.

  “Allow yourself to relax, and let your mind think only of peace. You have not had much rest lately, Your Highness, but my god will bring you rest. Once you have served Him, He will grant you rest.”

  He went on, but his words were lost to her, only their deep, compelling sound remained. That and his dark eyes …

  “Rest, Ulandra, rest, let your eyes close …”

  Ulandra let her eyes close, and, with a sigh, allowed her weary spirit to rest.

  “Your Highness, Your Highness, can you hear me?”

  Ulandra blinked, and sat up. She was mortified to realize that she must have fallen asleep while they had been talking.

  “Excuse me,” she stammered. “I … I was just resting my eyes …”

  Varlon smiled kindly at her. “Of course, Your Highness. It

  was churlish of me to spout dry philosophy at you when you are tired. Let me summon your ladies-in-waiting for you. I believe some of them are outside the door even now.”

  Ulandra nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Your Reverence, for escorting me back to my rooms.”

  He stood and bowed deeply. “May I come again, Your Highness? I wish to offer all of the royal family a chance to learn of the philosophy of my homeland.”

  She smiled at him tentatively and held out her hand. Varlon bowed deeply. Ulandra realized this was the first time she had felt relaxed or at peace since before her marriage.

  What harm can a little philosophy do?

  The Princess nodded. “Yes, Your Reverence. You may come again.”

  Jezzil tossed and turned that night, alternately thinking dark thoughts, then slipping into even darker dreams. He dreamed of Barus, and this time the flames were eating his friend’s flesh, blackening it, even as Barus reached out to him pleadingly.

  Jezzil jerked awake from that dream, mouth open in a gasp that almost became a scream. He lay there, panting, relieved it was just a dream but then filled afresh with guilt and shame.

  Courage? You have no courage, that mocking little voice spoke in his mind. Better to go mad than to fail and betray your friends, because you will fail, you know it …

  Finally he rolled out of the bed, pulled the blanket off it, tied it over his bare shoulders as a makeshift cloak, and picked up his crutches. His eyes were used to the dimness, and he knew the little room so well by now that he needed little light to cross it. Teeth fastened in his lower lip, he swung himself down the hall, found the back door and maneuvered his way outside.

  The three steps leading down to the small, city backyard looked like a cliff. Jezzil didn’t attempt them. Instead he clung to the hand railing and lowered himself onto the top step.

  Once seated, he hugged the blanket around his shoulders and looked up at the stars. He could see only the brightest of them, for the streetlamps were still lit. Thirty paces away, Khith’s cook was already busy in the small, detached building that housed the kitchen and bakehouse; a whiff of baking bread made his stomach rumble.

  Jezzil looked up again, staring at the bright stars in the Hunter’s Bow until his eyes burned and his neck grew stiff.

  What should I do?

  He tried to pray to Arenar, the warrior’s god. But what did Arenar know about sorcery? He was the god of steel and bowstrings and barracks life.

  Is there a god for magic users?

  Hugging the blanket around his bare shoulders, the Chonao thought about what it would be like to work magic, to be an adept, possibly even a sorcerer. Could I really learn to do that kind of thing? And if I did, would that be a good thing?

  He wondered whether Boq’urak could be defeated by magic. Swords and musket balls certainly hadn’t made much of a dent in the creature.

  The words of his first tactics instructor came back to him.

  “Never ignore a potential advantage! It is your duty to investigate and evaluate every possibility! Do you know what they call warriors who stick to tried and true battle strategies?”

  Jezzil smiled faintly at the memory. Sergeano Deveni had been a crusty old veteran who’d lost an eye and a leg. But he’d been able get around on his crutch so quickly.

  That particular day he’d turned to Jezzil for an answer, but when the boy had hesitated, he’d barked it out himself. “Defeated! That’s what they call them! Beaten! War is a creative art as well as one with established patterns and methods!

  Never neglect a potential advantage! ”

  Jezzil was shivering now, but he hardly noticed the cold.

  Could learning magic teach him what he’d need to know to help his friends? To protect Thia from Master Varn? Could one be both a warrior and an adept?

  He didn’t know. But it seemed that he was going to find out.

  “There are two basic kinds of avundi,” Khith said the next day. Obviously pleased that Jezzil was willing to learn, the

  doctor had wasted no time beginning their first lesson. “The first kind involves using the mind to affect the perceptions of others. What you would think of as an ‘illusion.’ Your ‘Castings’ are a type of illusion.”

  Teacher and pupil were sitting together at the table in the dining room. The curtains were drawn, both doors were closed, and the room was dimly lit by a single sconce of candles. Jezzil, who had not had occasion to write anything in years, was painfully taking notes in Chonao. He’d never learned to read or write Pelanese, so it was laborious for him to mentally translate his teacher’s words into his native tongue, then to write them down. But he did it anyway, because he was determined to have a record of what Khith taught him. He’d never been a quick learner, but he knew how to study.

  “The second type of avundi is far more difficult,” Khith continued. “This involves using the mind and spirit and energy—directed and propelled by the appropriate aids and spells—to affect physical reality. What I did when I healed the tear inside your body is of that type. And when I finished, I was so tired that it was as if I had run the length of Q’Kal at full speed.”

  Jezzil dipped his pen hurriedly and finished a line before looking up. “Casting tires me. I can’t do it for more than a few moments at a time.”

  “With practice, you will be able to hold the illusion for as long as you wish,” Khith assured him. “You will be able to do other things, without having to concentrate on it every moment.”

  Jezzil gave his teacher a dubious glance. Khith caught his unspoken skept
icism and nodded. “I speak the truth, young Jezzil. When you are riding at the gallop, do you have to concentrate every second lest you fall off your mount?”

  Jezzil chuckled. “No, of course not.”

  “This will be no different, I assure you. Before we end our session today, I will give you exercises designed to improve your ability to meditate and concentrate. And as you grow more proficient, you will be able to speed your own healing.

  If you work at it, your broken bone will knit in half the time it would otherwise take.”

  “Very well,” Jezzil muttered, thinking that between trying to strengthen his leg and studying magic, he’d have little time for anything else.

  “At the moment, though, I would like to test your ability to actually affect your physical surroundings by means of avundi,” Khith said. The Hthras produced a small vial, a tiny straw, and a small translucent jade plate. “This snuff I prepared will help you to access the part of your mind that controls this type of avundi.”

  Jezzil eyed the grayish powder Khith poured out. He’d never been drunk or taken recreational drugs. As a priest, all pleasures of the flesh were forbidden. “Do I really need to do this?”

  “Perhaps not,” Khith said. “Let us try.” The Hthras took a gold coin from the pocket of its robe and placed it on the table between them, turning it on edge, steadying it, then letting it go. “Sit back,” the doctor instructed. “So you are not touching the table.”

  Jezzil obeyed.

  “Now, topple the coin.”

  The Chonao simply looked at his teacher. “How?”

  Khith tapped its forehead. “There is a place inside your skull, in your mind, that holds the avundi to topple that coin.

  The snuff would help you isolate that place, but you may be able to find it without it. Try.”

  Jezzil gave his teacher a dubious glance. Fixing his gaze on the coin, he stared at it, trying to will it to fall over. He felt foolish, and it was difficult to stay focused. Somewhere in the house someone female laughed. Thia or Talis?