by Angus Wells
He dreamed, though of what, he could not remember when sunlight woke him, save that he had been on board a ship and frightened. He rubbed his eyes, grunting as a fist pounded on his door and servants—still silent—entered with his breakfast and kettles of hot water. He bathed, careful not to wet his bandages, and dressed, wondering if he should set clothes aside against his departure; deciding against such preparation for fear it might alert his father to his intentions.
In the spring-warm light of the new day Varent’s words felt no less alarming, nor any less appealing, and he ate his breakfast deep in thought, wondering when he might get the chance to explore the palace archives.
Two guards still stood patiently beyond his door, and two others in the garden below. He had no visitors, save the healer, who pronounced herself satisfied with his recuperation, and the servants who brought him food. That night he slept frustrated, his enforced isolation strengthening his determination to aid Varent, as much for the sake of rebellion as to thwart Azumandias’s monstrous plan.
For three more days he remained confined to his chambers, then was summoned to appear before his father. His bruises were healed by now, paling memories of the beating, and the bandages removed. He dressed carefully, hoping to impress with a sober demeanor, and went, excited and more than a little nervous, to the interview.
Bylath waited alone in his own quarters and Calandryll was grateful that Tobias was not present: facing the Domm was difficult enough without his brother’s mocking grin to spite him.
He stood in silence as his father sprinkled sand over the ink of a document and pressed his seal to the wax. Bylath was dressed for the hunt, his manner impatient as he shoved the scroll aside and turned cold eyes to his younger son.
“I trust you’ve learned your lesson. Or must I set a watchdog on you?”
Calandryll examined the floor beneath his feet, suppressing a grin of excitement.
“Well?” Bylath demanded.
“I’ve learned my lesson.”
He composed his features in an expression of subservience, meeting his father’s eyes.
“I hope so.” Bylath rose, leathers creaking, and walked to the window. “There will be no more of these escapades.”
“No,” agreed Calandryll.
Bylath nodded; grunted. “Very well—you’re free within the palace. But you will not leave here, do you understand?”
“I understand,” he said dutifully.
“The gatemen have orders to turn you back, should you attempt to leave. And if you do …”
The Domm’s features hardened, the threat of severe punishment implicit in his eyes: Calandryll shook his head.
“I’ll not attempt to leave.”
“Good. Perhaps I may enjoy a day’s hunting without wondering what fresh disgrace you’ll inflict on our name.”
“None,” he promised; sincerely.
Bylath nodded again.
“So be it. You may leave me. But tonight I expect you to attend the dining hall—without dramatics!”
“No, I promise,” Calandryll said. “Thank you.”
His father waved a hand, dismissing him, and he turned, marching across the tiles to the door, struggling against the shout of triumph that threatened to burst out.
He resisted the impulse to hurry directly to the archives and went instead to the balcony overlooking the palace’s great entry hall. Tobias was there, dressed in brown hunting tunic, a dirk on his waist and Nadama on his arm. She was lovely, the moss green of her tunic and loose pantaloons complementing the rich auburn of her hair, her eyes sparkling as she answered some jest of his brother’s. Tobias threw his head back, laughing, and saw Calandryll, murmuring something to Nadama. She, in turn, looked up, her smile knifing his heart so that his hands tightened on the balustrade, the knuckles blanching. What will she think when I return? he wondered. She’ll not laugh at me then. He forced himself to smile, and saw Tobias bow mockingly. Then Varent appeared, dressed in motley, a cap rakish on his black hair. He saw Tobias laughing and looked to where Calandryll stood, raising a hand in greeting, dark eyes alive with their shared secret. Calandryll answered his wave and nodded, and the ambassador ducked his head, engaging Nadama in conversation.
Bylath came striding along the balcony then, favoring Calandryll with an admonitory glance.
“Remember what I told you.”
“Yes, Father,” he returned, and watched the Domm go down the wide stairway, gathering the hunting party about him as he went out to where the horses stood in readiness. Calandryll waited until the clatter of hoofbeats had receded, then hurried to the archives.
THERE were two repositories within the palace, one a spacious chamber lined with shelves on which rested those documents, parchments, scrolls and books used with some regularity, either for the purposes of governance or for pedagogic reasons, and consequently frequented by the palace librarians, scribes and scholars, its contents indexed and ordered. The other was located in the cellars, near Gomus’s gloomy chamber, and seldom used. Here were placed the antique documents, deemed useless by the pragmatic Bylath, the old maps and moldering books accumulated over the years by successive Domms the material of no immediate importance, stored randomly. To Calandryll it was a treasure house filled with wonders and he had passed happy hours delving among the alcoves and cobwebbed shelves.
A low-roofed doorway granted ingress to this elder reliquary, hinges creaking a protest as he swung the door open, pausing to fetch a lantern from the adjacent corridor before descending the steep stone stairs that went down into the shadowed bowels of the palace. He heard things chitter a protest as he lit the ancient lanterns set in rusted sconces along the walls, their radiance exposing a cavernous vault, buttressed with low arches festooned with spiders’ webs, the niches piled high with the forgotten memorabilia of Secca’s past, the shelves and the trunks Jittering the floor dusty grey.
Calandryll moved down the vault, careless of the dust that settled on his face and clothes, the design Varent had shown him bright in his mind’s eye. There was no particular organization down here, save that imposed by time itself, no index to guide him; no catalog to which he might refer, but still he thought he could without much difficulty locate that area in which the documents collected by Thomus would be found. That Domm, he remembered, was the fourth to hold power in Secca: he walked purposefully toward the farther reaches of the vault.
Yes—he was right: when he checked the ancient scrolls in one grimy alcove they bore the seal of Thomus.
So, where might the chart be found? He began to rummage among the relics.
It was hard to resist the impulse to examine each aged document, but he was anxious to complete his search before his father returned. He might not get another chance before Varent must depart for Aldarin, and if he was to accompany the ambassador, he must find the map. He ignored the books, forcing himself to think sensibly despite his excitement. A map would most likely be rolled, perhaps contained within a protective cylinder, and so he turned to an alcove where tubes of cracked and aging leather were stacked one upon another in a great careless mass.
He started at the top of the pile, lifting the first cylinder down and extracting its contents. Dust tickled his nose and he sneezed noisily, the exhalation arousing more clouds so that his eyes watered and he rubbed grimy hands over his face. Gently, careful of the parchment’s age, he unrolled a blueprint of the city’s sewage system: he replaced it in its tube and set the cylinder on the floor. The next contained a street plan; after that an architect’s drawing of the palace’s west wing; then a chart of the farmlands abutting the city walls; a map of the harbor; a design for a temple never built; a fanciful structure of incomprehensible purpose. The pile at his feet grew. His hair was thick with dust, his shirt streaked with crime. Some tubes emitted only blackened flakes that fell like ashes to the floor; others spilled the long-dried husks of dead insects. Calandryll began to wonder if he would ever find the chart Orwen had drawn.
He cleared
the alcove and hurriedly replaced the cylinders, fearing that someone might discover his search. A second proved equally disappointing, but halfway down the third pile he found a map marked with the chartmaker’s seal.
He stared at it, comparing the design with his memory of that drawn on thin air by Varent. As best he could tell, this was the one, though how it helped their purpose he could not discern. He wiped his hands on dirtied breeks and carried the chart closer to a lantern, smoothing it with infinite care against his thigh. The paper was very old, oiled but still dangerously brittle, the ink dulled, and he feared that it might dissolve at his touch. It was, so far as he could tell, a map of the world as it had stood at the time of Thomus. Neither Kern or the Jesseryn Plain were shown, and Lysse was depicted in exaggerated size, the great jut of land containing Eyl and Kandahar and the Jungles of Gash a diminutive nub; of Gessyth there was no sign. Confused, he rolled the map again and prepared to return it to its cylinder.
As he did so, he noticed a second scroll inside the tube, like a lining against the leather interior. He set the first map down and began to work the other loose. It was not drawn on paper, but on some finer material, thinner and more supple, that lacked the coarse, brittle quality of the other parchment. It was a hide of some kind he realized as it slid from the cylinder, a creamy yellow inscribed with fine lines and the ornate script of the Old Tongue. Orwen’s seal was drawn in still-bright scarlet at the right-hand bottom corner. The scale of the domains was still disproportionate, but now Gessyth occupied as much space as Lysse. At the head of the skin the chartographer had written: A Mappe of the Worlde Drawne by Orwen for the Domm Thomus, Favored of Dera.
Calandryll licked his lips, and spat as his tongue encountered a heavy furring of dust. His inclination was to examine the chart in detail, but he resisted the temptation, fearing to linger overlong and risk discovery: there would be time to study the thing later. Careful of the brittle parchment, he rolled the one map and set it back inside the protective tube. The other he slipped beneath his shirt, against his skin, then set about returning the littered cylinders to the alcove.
When that task was completed and he was satisfied that even if his exploration should be discovered no one could tell what, if anything, he had taken, he walked back down the vault, extinguishing the lanterns as he went.
He emerged filthy, thankful that the passage leading to the depository was empty, and hurried to his chambers. Inside, he set the map almost reverentially on a table and looked at himself in the mirror. Excited brown eyes stared back from a mask of grime surmounted by a lank mop of near-black hair. His shirt and breeks completed the picture, and the brown leather of his boots was hidden beneath a mantle of sediment.
A glance at the window showed a sky darkening toward evening, threatening the return of the hunting party: he disrobed, piling his soiled clothes in a cupboard before tugging the bell cord to summon a servant.
A man came, eyeing Calandryll with open curiosity.
He said, “Hot water. And quickly,” surprised at his own authority, though no less so than the servant, who nodded and hurried away, clearly taken aback by this new sense of command.
The water came and Calandryll dismissed the servants, immersing himself in the tub and scrubbing furiously at his hair and skin. He would have liked to study the chart, but soon, he knew, his father would be back and he wanted to take no risk of giving further offense.
Considerably cleaner, he dried himself and selected fresh clothes. Bylath had not indicated whether or not a formal occasion was planned, so he compromised, selecting a shirt of dark blue cotton and matching breeks, short boots of black leather, and a loose tunic of green. He combed his hair, smiling, albeit ruefully, as he thought that the last time he had taken such care with his appearance he had sought to impress Nadama.
Well, now she would wonder where he had gone; perhaps even fret over his disappearance. And when he returned—a hero!—she would likely regard him in a new light. The thought pleased him and his smile grew broader. It was still there when he was summoned to dine.
It was not a formal occasion. The servant sent to fetch him informed him that Bylath awaited his presence in one of the smaller halls, and when he entered he saw that the Domm sat with Varent and Tobias at a round table, the others occupied by only the closest of his father’s advisers. Nadama was not present and he was uncertain whether that was a relief or a disappointment as he bowed courteously.
He was placed between Varent and Tobias, the ambassador beaming a greeting, his brother regarding him with disinterest. Bylath eyed him for a moment, as though deciding between reprimand and admonishment, and said, “You owe thanks to the ambassador.”
Calandryll frowned his incomprehension, turning to Varent, who shrugged and smiled effacingly.
“I saw no great reason to have you present,” the Domm announced, “but Lord Varent pleaded your cause.”
“Thank you,” Calandryll murmured, politely.
“Young men are apt to act without forethought,” said Varent smoothly. “I am sure Calandryll intended no offense.”
“But nonetheless gave it,” Bylath grunted.
“Aldarin forgives any slight,” Varent returned, smiling, “and I should prefer to depart Secca knowing that peace reigns in your household.”
Bylath snorted; Tobias grinned and murmured, “I believe any insult he may have intended was directed at me. Ana Nadama.”
The remark was designed to hurt, but Calandryll ignored it, his attention caught by the ambassador’s announcement.
“You are leaving?” he asked, hoping desperately that his tone did not reflect the anxiety he felt.
Varent nodded and said, “Indeed. Gracious though your father’s hospitality has been, I must return to Aldarin on the morrow.”
“Your business is concluded, then?” asked Calandryll.
“It is,” said Varent. “The treaty is signed and I must carry that welcome news back to my own city without delay.”
“You have achieved all you hoped for?”
It was difficult, this double-talk: he would have preferred to blurt out his news and ask the diplomat outright how he was to leave Secca undetected. But Varent would inform him; of that he was sure, he told himself. After all, the man could come and go like a shadow in the night, and it was hardly likely he would leave without the chart. And without Calandryll, he would have no chart.
“I believe so,” he heard Varent say, trying to read the man’s face, seeking an answer there.
“We have,” said Bylath, bluntly, “the final details have been ironed out.”
“Perhaps one or two may require amendment,” smiled Varent, “but I am confident we all have what we want.”
The words were directed at the Domm, but Varent’s easy smile encompassed Calandryll like a question. He nodded slightly and saw the ambassador’s lids close briefly, as if in confirmation that he understood.
Servants brought food then, and for a little while the table was silent. Varent spooned soup, murmuring some bland comment on its taste. Tobias said, “We eat fresh venison tonight, little brother. A buck I killed myself.”
“It was an excellent kill,” Varent complimented, “and a truly enjoyable hunt.”
“Secca has good hunting,” nodded Bylath, beaming as he turned toward Tobias. “And that second kill! You surpassed yourself; the horn spread on that buck was magnificent.”
Tobias basked in the praise. “A pity Calandryll did not accompany us,” he remarked. “Hell have little enough time for such pleasures after he assumes his priestly duties.”
Bylath chuckled sourly. “Calandryll? He’s no huntsman.”
“How did you pass your day?” asked Varent, as if making polite conversation. “What did you do while we rode to the hounds?”
Calandryll shrugged. “I studied. I examined some old maps.”
“Studied,” Bylath snorted. “All you need study, boy, is the Deran gospels.”
He did not notice Varent’s smile, o
r the satisfied look the ambassador gave Calandryll.
“You found them interesting?”
“I did,” Calandryll nodded. “Most interesting.”
“My offer stands,” Varent said. “Should your father permit it, you are most welcome to examine my own small scholarly collection.”
Calandryll grinned his answer, undaunted by his father’s scornful grunt.
“You have my thanks, Lord Varent, but Calandryll is to enter the priesthood—hell not be free to visit Aldarin.”
“As you wish,” Varent murmured equably.
“We must all accept our duties,” Tobias intoned portentously. “Must we not, Calandryll?”
“Yes,” he answered evenly, “we must. Whatever they may be.”
Both Tobias and Bylath glanced at him then, surprised by his apparent acceptance. The Domm frowned, but Calandryll was saved from interrogation by the arrival of the venison, thick slabs of aromatic meat accompanied by great platters of steaming vegetables and salvers of blood-thickened gravy.
“This really is superb,” Varent applauded, skillfully deflecting attention from Calandryll. “Your kitchens complement your son’s skill as a huntsman, Lord Bylath.”
The Domm beamed; Tobias simpered, and the conversation, steered by Varent, returned to the day’s sport. Calandryll ate in silence, satisfied that the ambassador had understood his oblique references; satisfied that he had received the answer he wanted.
IN his chambers after the dinner had ended and the palace slept, he awaited Varent’s arrival in a fury of impatience. The night was clear and the moon full now, limning his balcony with cold silver light. Bats fluttered on silent wings, and in the garden below night birds chorused, their song loud through the opened window. The air was warm, the early promise of spring fulfilled. Calandryll paced, pausing only to peer at the map spread on a table. For all the value Varent placed on it, it seemed to show no more than a possibly disputable outline of Gessyth’s geography, a seemingly random tracery of lines devoid of annotation: he could not see how it might define the location of fabled Tezin-dar.