Color Mage (Book 1)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  No sooner had she felt its taste on her tongue than Callo said: “Where were you?”

  “I was called to help with a healing.” Kirian could have said more, but his tone annoyed her. “What concern is it of yours?”

  “You could have told us where you were going. I am responsible for you.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Since when, my lord? The last I heard, I asked to accompany you to this place, not marry you.”

  Callo flushed. His eyes glittered in a disconcerting way. She almost thought she saw a spark. “As far as these people are concerned, you are of my household. That makes me responsible.”

  He was worried, Kirian realized, as she sipped the wine again. Most of her annoyance vanished. “I will try to do better in the future,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chiss go into the little alcove reserved for the servant’s cot and belongings. She looked up at Lord Callo, a smile beginning to light her eyes. She was charmed by his worry.

  He stood very near her, his eyes on her smiling ones. His face was expressionless. He did not speak, yet Kirian felt as if he were under the influence of some strong emotion.

  “I thank you for your concern,” she said in a soft voice.

  He raised his hand and with one finger traced the line of her jaw. She stood motionless, hardly breathing. He seemed very tall and warm, standing so close. She saw his eyes on her mouth. Her breath came faster.

  Chiss dropped something in the alcove. The sound made Kirian jump. Chiss pushed aside the curtain and returned to the main chamber. Lord Callo stepped back. Kirian flushed and looked away.

  “The Queen called me,” she said, hurrying into words. “The King has the breathing disease, and was in the middle of an attack.”

  “King Ar’ok? The boy king?” Chiss asked.

  “A strange boy.” She remembered the look in his eyes after he recovered, when he was watching her, and shivered.

  “Did he do something to you?” Callo asked, noting her reaction.

  “No. He’s just—older than his years. Not really a boy after all,” she said lightly.

  “All that power doesn’t make for normal individuals,” Callo said. “Look at Sharpeyes. It’s why I can’t get around this ku’an business.”

  “Surely there are people who use power benevolently,” Chiss said. “King Ar’ok is most definitely not one of them.”

  “What have you heard, Chiss?”

  “He uses a ku’an’s power to get what he wants. Nothing unusual in that – most of them do, here. But he is very young to be so ruthless. He has a bad reputation with women.”

  “So did you cure him?” Callo asked.

  “Temporarily,” Kirian said. “There is no cure for the disease, but sart leaves taken as a tea will ease the attacks. They don’t seem to know of the sart plant here, so I am Ar’ok’s only source of it until their physicians can locate some.”

  Callo smiled. “Good.”

  Chiss took the empty wine jug from the table. “It will make them think twice before they do anything hostile towards you, my lord.”

  “I will not withhold my aid for any kind of political reason, my lord,” Kirian warned.

  “It doesn’t matter. They will think you will, Kirian. And they’ll be as accommodating as they can to me because of it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Callo stood outside the ornate wooden door. The door was carved with figures from Ha’lasi myth or history—the god Ur’brok siring his son Som’ur, the first psychic lord of Ha’las. Callo examined the carvings as he waited. The human woman Ur’brok had settled on as the vessel of his legacy looked pained, almost agonized, as Ur’brok ravished her. Ur’brok, he thought with a startled smile, bore a strong resemblance to Jashan.

  The door swung open to reveal a bowing guard and a veiled woman, probably a noblewoman of some sort from the quality of her robes and jewelry.

  “Lord Callo?” the woman said. “You may enter.”

  Callo nodded and entered the room. There were guards and servants, but only three occupants of status. One was an older woman dressed in ornate robes that hung on her bony frame. Jewelry glittered in her red-gray hair, on her hands, stitched into her robes. As Callo entered, she was splaying her fingers in front of her, admiring the sparkle of multiple rings on each finger. An adolescent boy sat near her, looking sulky as if forced to an unwelcome duty. His face was peaked in the light of the fire. Behind the boy stood Si’lan, the ku’an’an of Ha’las.

  All three of them had eyes the same amber color as his own.

  Callo made a formal bow to the King, then to the Queen.

  “Your Majesties,” Si’lan said, “This is the ku’an I told you about. Callo ran Alkiran from Righar.”

  “I am most honored, your Majesties,” Callo said.

  The boy king’s eyes slid over Callo. His eyelids dropped. “You must know how this half-a-ku’an came to be. Mother?”

  “Your royal father did not share as much with me as you might have thought,” the Queen said. Her eyes were avid as she evaluated Callo. “But he makes a fine addition to our ranks. Perhaps you would honor me with your presence at dinner soon, Lord Callo?”

  “He is accompanied by the young woman Healer,” murmured Si’lan. “Shall she be invited as well?”

  The Queen pursed her lips. “No need for that, Si’lan. You may entertain her, if she is worth entertaining.”

  Callo stiffened. “I understand Hon Kirian has performed a great service for His Majesty.”

  “Indeed,” Si’lan said. “And he is grateful. Are you not, Sire?”

  Ar’ok grimaced. “Yes, yes. Though a woman Healer is an abomination. What is she like, Lord Callo? In bed?”

  Anger flashed through his veins. Si’lan, watching him, said: “Excuse His Majesty, Lord Callo. He derives pleasure from prodding you thus.”

  Callo’s speech was frozen by the exigencies of his awkward position here. He could not reply.

  Ar’ok laughed. “You do not behave like a ku’an at all,” he said.

  “I came here to discover the Ha’lasi part of my heritage,” Callo bit off. “Thus far, it does not please me.”

  Si’lan said, “Calm down now, my lord. You don’t know us well enough to make such a judgment. And you! Your Majesty. Please guard your tongue.”

  Ar’ok’s eyes narrowed. “You overstep yourself, ku’an’an.” The lazy smile was gone from his face. His stare was malevolent. He sat up and transferred his stare to Callo. “You are but half a ku’an. What use you are I do not know. But Si’lan has asked me to accommodate you, so I will, for a while. Talk to Si’lan. Go to Som’ur. Maybe you will learn how to be a ku’an.”

  If you are an example, then I will not wish to. Callo was furious. He choked down his first rash response. Chiss had warned him against this boy King, and had advised him to keep a firm hold on his temper. When he spoke it was with rigid control. “I cannot agree with you, Your Majesty, but I can only be appreciative of your hospitality. I hope you will discover the error in your opinion of us.”

  Ar’ok laughed again, then his eyes slid away from Callo towards a slave girl who approached with a tray of refreshments. Callo decided he would not touch the offered food if his life depended upon it. The Queen watched him, eyes flirting from under her ridiculous veil; he knew her admiration would turn in a blink to antagonism if he insulted Ar’ok. He bowed and took his leave. Si’lan was just behind him as the carven door closed behind him.

  “I would offer my apologies,” Si’lan said. “But there is no point. It will happen again whenever you see him.”

  “Jashan’s eyes. What have I done to that . . .?” He stifled his words, aware that Si’lan was no friend either.

  “There is no need for you to have done anything. His Majesty is a young King with great personal power, and has never been subject to much discipline. You must remember you are the adult here, and draw upon your patience.”

  “No doubt.” Callo let Si’lan draw him along the corrid
or. His thoughts swirled, as the conversation with the King replayed itself in his head. Then he realized he had no idea where Si’lan was taking him. “Where are we going?”

  “To Som’ur’s temple, as His Majesty commanded. To be introduced to the god. All ku’an worship Ur’brok’s son Som’ur.”

  Callo sighed and withdrew his arm from Si’lan’s hold. “You are rushing me along as if I am a steer going to slaughter.”

  Si’lan’s answering grin was malicious. All Callo’s defenses snapped into place.

  “If you wish for me to instruct you, as a ku’an, you must be accepted by Som’ur. He weeds out pretenders and false motivations.”

  “How does he do this?”

  “The new ku’an stays in his temple overnight. Som’ur comes to him. If the ku’an is free of impure motives, he lives.”

  “And that boy—excuse me, His Majesty—has been through this procedure?”

  Si’lan nodded. “He would not be King, if he had not been accepted by Som’ur. None of us could rule this land without his sanction, especially as few as we are.”

  Callo wondered how stringent the god’s requirements were, if such an idiot as Ar’ok had lived through the test. “I have worshiped Jashan since I was ten. Why would Som’ur let me live, since I owe my life to Jashan?”

  Si’lan began walking again. Callo followed. “If you do not complete the vigil, we will have no choice but to assume your purpose here is espionage. Why should we give up our secrets to a foreign ku’an that is not vouched for by our god?”

  “I don’t want any of your damn secrets. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then, why? To find your father?”

  “I’d like to know who he was. Why a Ha’lasi mage went to such trouble to sire me. I most certainly am not here as a spy for King Martan.”

  “But King Martan is your uncle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely you must understand we cannot simply trust you. You have no choice, Lord Callo. I will escort you to the temple – there is one here, in the castle, and a priest to pray over you.”

  “I will not go. It is suicide.” Callo stopped, began to turn around. Si’lan gestured and Callo was surrounded by armed guards. He reached for his sword, but, of course, he had not been armed in the King’s presence. He took a deep breath and met Si’lan’s expressionless gaze.

  “I think you will go,” Si’lan said. “After you have recovered, we will discuss what you need to know.”

  The guards escorted Callo down the hallway. Si’lan stood in the corridor, watching him go.

  The guards left him at the door to Som’ur’s temple, closing and locking it behind him. The temple was a small room with six chairs spaced in a circle around a small dais. The dais, covered in gold leaf, held what looked to Callo like a live human heart, but much larger than he would have expected such a thing to be. The organ hung suspended above a polished base, pulsing. He stood there looking at this improbable centerpiece, then reached out to touch the plinth, but a barrier he could not see stopped his finger before it could come anywhere near.

  The heart beat. Callo frowned at it. Why was such a thing on the dais? Was it something to be venerated? Or was it simply a focus for meditation? It looked real. Could it be Som’ur’s heart?

  He did not know why he had expected a temple of Som’ur to be large, for the only worshippers would be ku’an, and there were few of those in Ha’las. According to legend, all descended in some way from the god, similar to the way the righ all claimed descent from Valotnor. He looked around; the walls were covered with freeform curves in more gold. The ku’an had spent a fortune on this tiny room, money he knew the poor island kingdom could not afford. The overall effect was both rich and barbaric. He looked up and around and saw, partially hidden among the gold-leaf decorations halfway up the tall ceiling, a gap. It was a spy-hole. From the space on the other side of that hole, the ku’an’an, or anyone else, could observe what happened to him here.

  He sighed and sat on one of the chairs. A long night lay ahead. He had no idea how Som’ur would manifest himself, but he doubted a man who had sworn oaths to Jashan would survive the night.

  The lock rattled. He turned to look as the door opened. Callo tensed, ready to use this entrance as an opportunity to escape what he expected to be certain death from a jealous Ha’lasi god, but the man who entered was flanked by three of the armed guards. They were taking no chances.

  The man who entered wore the gold eye insignia of the King. He sat next to Callo, looking at him curiously with the ku’an’s gold eyes.

  “Another ku’an,” Callo said. “You are everywhere.”

  “There are actually very few of us,” the man answered. “If you survive this night, we will welcome you very gladly indeed. I am Wan’tal, Som’ur’s priest.”

  “Callo ran Alkiran.”

  The priest nodded. “I am to tell you what to expect. You will spend the night here. At some point Som’ur will come to you. He will put you through some kind of ordeal – it seems to vary from ku’an to ku’an, and I would not try to guess what it will be for a foreign half-blood like yourself. If you survive, you will be accepted here.”

  “What is the significance of the heart, up on the dais?”

  “That is Som’ur’s heart.”

  “It is . . . very lifelike,” Callo said.

  “It is not a representation of Som’ur’s heart. It is the god’s heart. It was cut from his body on the battlefield and has been guarded by the ku’an ever since.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you have any more questions?”

  “No. I would appreciate it if you informed my man Chiss and Healer Kirian of where I am.”

  “Of course.” The priest stood and drew his robe about him. He stepped toward the door.

  “No prayers, then,” Callo said.

  “They would mean nothing to you, worshipper of a foreign god that you are. And Som’ur himself requires no prayers from us, just dominance in his name. Good fortune to you, Lord Callo. I hope to see you in the morning.” The priest bowed and nodded to the guards. They walked out behind the priest, hands on weapons, eyes never leaving Callo until the door locked behind them.

  Callo stretched and leaned back in the chair. It was hard and uncomfortable. He did not know how the ku’an worshipped Som’ur, but he was sure none of them fell asleep in these chairs while doing it. After a while, he got up and began pacing the perimeter of the tiny room, practicing the controlled breathing he had learned from Jashan’s priests.

  There were no windows for him to tell the passage of time, but the candles had burned down a couple of marks when he felt the first intimation of danger. He sat in one of the chairs, waiting.

  The air around him turned cold. In a flash he felt the heightened sensation he had felt when Si’lan had tested him—the rasp of air on skin, the pain of the hard chair pressing into his back, the intense unbearable aroma he had not even noticed before. He rose, unable to keep touching the chair, but the pressure of his feet on the floor almost made him cry out. He closed his eyes for a moment against the searing light from the two candles. All his senses were on fire.

  He sat back down, gritting his teeth against the rough sensation. Then the heightened sensitivity vanished.

  All was quiet. He opened his eyes, wincing, but the candlelight was once again just a dim glow. He waited.

  Then two amber eyes opened in his mind, and he lay back across two chairs, dismayed.

  The eyes scanned his mind, sweeping back and forth across the expanse of his memories from the earliest childhood when he had let his anger spill out onto those around him. The gaze saw into every dark corner. Callo lay there sweating as his mind opened up its possessions to the god. The wall he had built to contain the ku’an ability vanished under Som’ur’s eyes. The eyes burned where they looked, leaving his mind feeling raw and sore. This was miserable, but if all Som’ur was going to do was look, Callo thought he could make it through the night.


  Then the god started testing him.

  The first feeling was joy—an explosion of it, so white-hot that his muscles stiffened, and he gasped. He had never felt joy like this, so intense it was almost pain. Then the joy was swept away as if the god tired of it, and lust took hold, only for a few seconds of exquisite torment, before it vanished. Then came fear, and the fear did not let go.

  The fear turned his muscles rigid. His heart raced; his breath came fast. He felt as if he was going to black out. Was this what a ku’an did, what Som’ur let them do—cause this agony? Was he supposed to accept the god’s intrusion somehow, let Som’ur in? He could not do that—Jashan was his god, who had guarded him from himself for decades. He could not accept this brutal invasion; there was no way he could assimilate it, although he thought that was what Som’ur expected of him.

  He tried to shove Som’ur away the way he had the ku’an’an when Si’lan had tested him, but his will was in shreds, his barrier wall gone. Som’ur was inflicting misery on him that he thought would kill him. His heart beat rapidly, and so hard he almost thought he would be able to see his chest vibrate with it. All his muscles were clenched, and his breath came fast, yet he could get no air. He slipped from the chair into a heap on the floor. His vision began to blacken, and a sharp pain slammed from his head through his body. His heart spasmed.

  Then something hot ran from his tormented heart down his veins into his hands. He felt Som’ur hesitate; he was able to draw a deep breath. He opened eyes that felt as if they were rimmed with salt, seeing fire in the room—color magic. Jashan’s magery raced into the room as Jashan responded to his call and defended him from the other god. Surely it was extraordinary that Jashan would come to fight for him in the very temple of Som’ur. Even more astonishing that the god’s fire came from his own hands.

  The fire died. His heartbeat eased. The pain subsided until he thought he could sit up. His arm almost gave out as he pushed himself up into a half-sitting position. The gold eyes in his consciousness closed and Callo’s mind was his own once more.

  He was alone. No gods lurked in his mind. He looked up at the spy hole and thought he saw movement, then shrugged to himself and dragged himself to his feet. Swaying, he took a quick inventory and found his body weary, shaking, painful, but whole. His mind was seared but seemed to contain everything it should, including his protective wall, which loomed stronger than ever somehow. He looked up at the plinth and saw the god Som’ur’s heart still there, still beating. To his exhausted eyes, it looked a little scorched.