“If you and Kantor are quite finished,” Kerowyn said, with heavy irony, interrupting his thoughts, “the rest of us would like to actually discuss this.”
“Out loud,” Eldan added.
Alberich leveled a glance at them that would have made any of his pupils quiver where they stood. But of course, Eldan wasn’t a Trainee anymore, and he’d faced worse than Alberich over his breakfast fire, day in and day out, for the past five years. And of course, Kerowyn never had been his pupil, so there went that particular hold out the window.
With a sigh, he sat down, and the discussion began in earnest. It as going to be more than a “discussion,” when it finally got to the Queen—it was going to be a battle, and Alberich was not going to go to that battle less than fully armed.
In the end, it was Karchanek who won the battle, which was shorter than Alberich would have been willing to believe. Perhaps things were more desperate than he had thought, where Hardorn was concerned; he made his case to Selenay to hear Karchanek out, supported by Kero and Eldan, then didn’t learn anything more until Karchanek himself came to tell him that Selenay had agreed. Alberich didn’t hear as much of what went on in Council sessions anymore, now that Kerowyn (with young Herald Jeri as her assistant) was taking over many of the duties he had performed, but for Selenay and for her father.
That had only meant he hadn’t needed to sit through the candlemarks of arguments, for and against the invitation. Rightly or wrongly, this had been one session that Selenay had decided he especially should not participate in.
No matter; Karchanek had been his own best advocate, once Selenay actually heard him out. Perhaps his two most persuasive points had been that he himself would remain in Selenay’s hands as a hostage, and that Alberich himself and one other Herald should go with her. Kero had objected to that, putting herself up as Alberich’s substitute. But this was one duty he had no intention of giving over to Kero—well, for one thing, as she assumed his role, he became more expendable and she, less so. For another, there was no one living in Valdemar who could read his fellow countrymen as well as he could.
He stood now beside Karchanek, who was arrayed in one of Gerichen’s borrowed robes, beneath a slightly overcast summer sky, in, of all places, Companion’s Field beside a hastily erected archway of brickwork. It lacked only two days to Midsummer, the longest day of the year and so the most auspicious for Vkandis, the day appointed for—
Well, Alberich didn’t quite know what. Solaris hadn’t given anyone any indication of just what was going to happen, other than Talia being invested into the ranks of the Sun-priests. Maybe Solaris herself didn’t know. But Midsummer was when it was going to happen, and somehow Karchanek was going to get them there for it. Talia had been here for a candlemark, Rolan beside her, both of them arrayed and packed for traveling. Kantor stood beside Rolan, calm and serene as usual, and in nowise intimidated by the presence of the King Stallion of the Companion herd. Beside him was Dirk’s Companion, with Dirk fiddling nervously with girth and stirrups. There was also a crowd of Heralds, Companions, and interested parties surrounding them in a rough circle that was a prudent distance from the innocuous brick arch. No one knew what Karchanek was going to do. They only knew that it would be the first real demonstration of magic within the city of Haven for—centuries.
“—and when the Holy Firecat senses that I am reaching with my signature power toward him,” Karchanek was explaining to Jeri, as he had already explained to Talia, Dirk, Selenay, and everyone else who was involved in making this decision, “he will open the Gate between us, exactly as if he was burning a tunnel through a mountain to avoid having to climb and descend to reach the other side.”
“And you can’t do that alone?” Jeri asked.
He shook his head. “Only one of Adept power can open a Gate alone, and then, well, it is better that it be done by two or more such Adepts, and then only to a place that has been prepared as I have prepared this archway. One cannot simply make a Gate into nothing, or into a place where one has never been. And the farther one is from the place where one wishes to Gate to, the more power it takes to make the Gate. I cannot do that, no ten Adepts in Karse—if we had ten, and not merely myself and Solaris—could do it. I provide only an anchoring point. It will be the Firecat who creates this Gate.”
“I suppose,” Jeri brooded, “that’s the only reason why you’ve never Gated in behind our lines with an army.”
Karchanek shrugged. “Power, lack of familiarity with the place, and that there are very, very few Adepts. The Order as it was distrusted mages, and the more power they had, the less they were trusted. Those who manifested great power and demonstrated an ability to think for themselves often met with unfortunate accidents, or fell victim to the White Demons. So it was said.”
“And Ancar?” Jeri asked soberly.
“Could learn this, has he those who will teach him,” Karchenek replied grimly. “Never doubt it. He, as were some of the worst of the Sun-priests of the past, is not limited in power by what he can channel naturally—he can, and has, and will, channel blood-magic, which has no limits other than the number of people that one can kill. Yet another reason why this alliance is so vital. Vital enough that I will remain here, whatever it costs me, hostage to the Son of the Sun’s good behavior, although . . .”
He didn’t have to finish that statement; Karchanek looked like a man haunted by his own personal set of demons. In a way, apparently he was. According to Kerowyn, who’d had mages in her Skybolts company that hadn’t been able to bear what happened to them when they crossed into Valdemar, the reason why there were no real mages in this land was because they couldn’t stand being here. The moment anyone worked real magic here—something happened. Something—a lot of somethings, evidently—swarmed over the mage and gathered around him, night and day. And stared at him.
Now that didn’t sound too dreadful to Alberich until he’d had a chance to see what the experience was doing to Karchanek’s nerves and thought about it himself. What would it be like to have dozens, perhaps hundreds of people around you all the time, never taking their eyes off you, glaring at you by light and dark, sleeping or waking? Nerve-racking, that was what it was. And when the creatures were invisible to everyone else?
There was no equivalent to the Queen’s Own in Solaris’ “court,” but Karchanek was close—lifelong friend and supporter, powerful mage, on whom she depended for able advice. That he pledged to remain as hostage was probably the only reason why, in the end, this plan had been agreed to. “And what do we do to keep you from spiriting yourself away?” Selenay had asked sharply when he first made the proposition himself.
He had shrugged. “Whatever you please. Bind me, blindfold me, keep in me a darkened room, drug me if no other solution presents itself. Whatever makes you certain of me.”
Selenary had taken him at his word. There was a small cup of some drug or other waiting in a page’s hands for the moment when the Gate came down again. Karchanek would be drugged until the morning of the ceremony, then watched like a hawk until the moment when the Firecat would call him and use him reopen the Gate to Valdemar, this time in the full presence of every important person in Karse at the High Temple itself, and send Talia and her escort home. He didn’t seem at all unhappy about that—
“—the truth?” he said to Jeri, when she asked him about that herself. ‘I will welcome it. To sleep, oblivious to all the vrondi-eyes upon me! I could ask no greater boon, at this moment. They do not just watch, you know. They talk, at me sometimes, but mostly among themselves. It is not just the eyes upon me, it is the chatter, the droning babble that never stills and never ends, that I cannot understand.” He shuddered, and Alberich saw with an easing of his worries that a faint expression of sympathy flitted over Selenay’s face.
Sympathy—for a Karsite other than Alberich. A good omen, but one he didn’t have time to contemplate. Already Karchanek approached the brickwork archway, and he had warned Alberich that not even a Firecat could maintain a Gate a
t this distance for too long. They would barely have time to get through it.
As a lowly Captain of the Border Guard, he had never actually seen any priestly magic being performed, other than the simple act of kindling fire on Vkandis’ altar; he’d only heard the howls of the spectral creatures conjured to harry “witches and evildoers” through the night. He couldn’t bear to watch it now. Perhaps one day, when he’d had a chance to become accustomed to the idea of magic being used for anything other than harm, but not now. Not when his nerves were singing with the need to act, and he feared that if he watched Karchanek, a man he would like to think of as a friend one day, he might see the Priest-Mage calling a demon. . . .
So he busied himself with Kantor’s tack, and when the signal came, he mounted in a rush, and drove through the Gate with his eyes closed, hard on Rolan’s heels.
There was a long, long moment then of terrible cold, then bone-shaking nausea, and the horrible sensation that he was falling through a starless, endless, bottomless night. It seemed to last forever, but Kantor’s steady presence in his mind held him, as it had held him during the long, slow agony of healing from his terrible burns, when Kantor had rescued him and brought him here, to safety and a new life—
Then he was not here, anymore, but there—in Karse.
Sun blazed down upon him and the others, a sun fierce and kind at the same time. They stood, their Companions’ bridle bells chiming softly as they fidgeted, in the middle of a bone-white courtyard surrounded on all four sides by enclosing walls. Before them waited a cat, and a woman.
The cat was the size of a large dog, with a brick-red mask, ears, paws, and tail shading to a handsome cream on the body, and piercing blue eyes. A Firecat—
:Indeed I am,: said a voice in his mind with a touch of satisfied purr behind it. :My name is Hansa, and this, of course, is Solaris. Welcome home, Herald Alberich.:
“I second that sentiment,” echoed the woman.
She had presence that entirely eclipsed her appearance. If Alberich had not already known that her eyes were a golden-brown subject to changing as her mood changed, and her hair a darker golden-brown, he would not have been able to tell anyone that if he turned around and took his eyes off her. Yes, the Firecat was impressive—any feline that came up to his knee would be impressive, much less one like Hansa. And the faint golden glow that surrounded each hair certainly didn’t hurt.
But Solaris had that same golden glow about her. And a great deal more. Measuring by eye, she was certainly no taller than Selenay and much shorter than Alberich—but she somehow loomed larger than that.
“You, I do hope, Herald Talia are,” she said in slow and deliberate Valdemaran to Talia, who had dismounted. She held out her hand, and Talia stepped forward and took it. And both of them smiled identical, warm smiles that managed to humanize Solaris without diminishing her impressiveness by a whit. “And this the formidable Herald Dirk would be?” she inquired with a slight lift of one eyebrow that somehow had the effect of making Dirk flush.
There were no servants, no lesser priests, there was no one but Solaris and Hansa—Hansa, who Solaris scooped up with an effort and held draped over her arms, for despite the Firecat’s aplomb, he seemed exhausted. It was Solaris who escorted them to their rooms, indicating with a simple nod of her head that the Companions should come also. She brought them down quiet, white corridors lit from above by skylights and ornamented at intervals with great Sun-In-Glory Disks on walls and inlaid in the floors.
The rooms were simple, probably priests’ quarters; Dirk and Talia shared one, with Alberich in the next—and most interesting, a kind of rough box-stall hockdeep in fresh straw took up about half of each of the rooms. Kantor went directly to his with a shake of his head; after a long and searching look at their Chosen, Rolan and Dirk’s little mare went to theirs.
“And here my own suite is,” said Solaris, throwing open the next door, which differed not at all from theirs. “Some changes I made when they were mine. . . .”
Alberich could well imagine. Solaris’ predecessor had been one of the worst in the long line of corrupt and venial leaders. He could see that the plain door was very new, and could only imagine the sort of gilded monstrosity that had once stood in its place. Something had certainly been scoured and sanded from the wall now painted a plain pale wheat color. Furnishings were just as simple as those in the rooms he and the others had been given; two long couches, three lounging chairs, and a desk and working chair. Solaris put Hansa down on a low couch and straightened up again.
“We in the heart of our great Temple are,” Solaris said gravely. “My hand-picked servants, a brace of trusted Priests, these all that know of your presence are. Come here, none else shall.”
“But—isn’t there some preparation we should make?” Talia asked. “What are we—am I—supposed to be doing?”
“That, I know not myself,” Solaris said ruefully, surprising all of them. “The Sunlord has not told me. Here—come and sit, and tell you what I know, I shall.”
She took a seat on the couch beside Hansa, leaving them to choose seats for themselves. Now, no longer quite so dazzled by her presence, Alberich noted that her robes were as simple as her rooms. . . .
And just as deceptive. For the chair he chose was carved of tigerwood, comfortably cushioned with soft doeskin tanned to a golden hue. And Solaris’ robes might be simple in cut, but they were a heavy golden silk-twill, subtlety embroidered with the Sun In Glory in a slightly darker shade. No matter what else she was, Solaris was not ascetic.
“This much, I know,” Solaris told them, one hand on Hansa’s back, stroking as she spoke. “At the Solstice ceremony, some few chosen Novices made Priests are, here in the High Temple.” She made a face. “Those with families of wealth and influence, most generally. Some times, of outstanding ability, one or two. Among them, you are to be. Last, you will be announced and made Priest. A simple ceremony, it is—repetition of vows, which I will show you, so that you know I do not bind you to more than I claim. More than that, I know not.”
“But there will be more than that,” Alberich stated, as Talia bit her lip.
Solaris traded a glance with Hansa. :Of a complete certainty there will be more, much more than that,: the Firecat said. :But the Sunlord does not choose to im-Firecat said. :But The Sunlord does not choose to impart to us precisely what He has in mind.:
“Trust you must, to Him and to me,” Solaris said.
It could be a trap. It could be something really horrible. Alberich knew without bothering to try and read his expression that all manner of grim possibilities were running through Dirk’s mind. Whether Talia suffered the same concerns he couldn’t say, but he rather thought not. Talia couldn’t read thoughts, but she could, as an Empath, read emotions, and those often spoke more clearly and unambiguously than thoughts. Her expression showed no sign of worry; on the contrary, she seemed as comfortable as she could be with the news that a God had decided to spring some sort of surprise, not only on His own people and chiefest Priest, but on her. Whatever she read from Solaris, it gave her no concerns on that score.
Solaris sighed. “Inscrutable, the Sunlord is, and unknowable His mind . . . but a wish I have, in my weakness, that He be somewhat less so.”
Hansa made a sound between a purr and a cough that sounded like a laugh, and Solaris bent her golden gaze upon her Firecat. “And you, also,” she added, with a touch, a bare touch, of sharpness.
:I am a cat,: Hansa reminded her with supreme dignity. :And a cat is nothing if not mysterious. It is our charm.:
To Alberich’s surprise it was Dirk who chuckled weakly. “Well, Radiance,” he said, having learned the proper forms of address from Alberich and Karchanek, “we’re used to this sort of behavior out of our Companions. They seem to have a proper mania about keeping secrets from us mere mortals.”
That relaxed Solaris; Alberich read it in the lessening of the tension of her shoulders. “When divine intervention requested is, and received it
is, then churlish is must be to cavil at how it comes, one supposes,” she offered.
Talia uttered a ladylike snort, and Solaris hid a smile behind her hand. “If God understandable becomes, need Him we no longer should,” Solaris observed after a moment. “For we would be as He. . . .”
:An interesting observation, and an intelligent one,: Kantor said with approval, but no surprise.
Alberich could only wonder how this woman had managed to survive in the cutthroat world of Temple politics with a mind like that.
“Well, tell us about this ceremony,” Talia said after a moment of silence, in lieu of any other comments, and Solaris hastened to tell them what she could.
When Talia and Dirk retired, Solaris motioned to Alberich to stay. “I would like to introduce you to my chief friends and supporters, aside from Karchanek,” she said, switching to Karsite with obvious relief. “And I wish to learn to know you, Alberich, and through you, the land I wish to make our ally.”
He resumed his seat warily as she continued, after summoning a silent servant with a double clap of her hands and issuing orders for food and drink.
“You have been a Herald of Valdemar for longer now than you ever lived in Karse,” she observed shrewdly. “Would you return to dwell here—permanently—if you could?”
He shook his head. He head already considered his from the moment that he was convinced Karchanek could be trusted. “No, Holiness,” he replied with all respect. “Even if I were to be accepted by those who called me traitor. I am a Herald.”
He half expected her to be insulted, but she smiled as if she understood. “Then from time to time, Karse will come to you,” she said, and at that moment the servant entered with another, both bearing trays.
Now, scent—as Alberich well knew, since he had now and again used it as a weapon—is the sense that strikes the deepest and at the most primitive parts of a man. And he had not realized just how much he missed his homeland, until the scents of the foods of his childhood arose from the dishes that the servants uncovered, and briefly—briefly—he regretted giving the answer he had.
Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 28