Gajdosik listened to her carefully. Then he answered, “We make mistakes, being merely human and mortal. And so we must all hope that in your greater wisdom you will be generous to forgive us, O Keppa.”
“Indeed,” the Kieba said dryly. “Prettily said. Laasat Jerant!”
The Tamaristan officer flinched. Then he bowed carefully. “Keppa.”
“Take your young soldier and go,” the Kieba commanded him. “Leave my mountain. Take command of your prince’s men waiting below. Wait there with them. I will decide in my own time what I shall do with you and with them. Do no violence to the people of Carastind; they are under my protection. Do not depart without leave. Do not on any account break my privacy a second time. Is that clear?”
Laasat bowed a second time, wordlessly, gathered up the younger soldier with a glance, and took a step backward. They retreated without a word. Tamresk cast a worried look over his shoulder at the prince. Laasat did not look back at all.
Once they were gone Prince Gajdosik said quietly, “Forgive all my men their offenses, O Keppa; set their offenses against me. Allow my people to withdraw from your precincts—”
“Where shall they go?” asked the Kieba. “To the north to join your main force? And from there, where? Shall they give themselves to Bherijda? Or go back across the Narrow Sea to face Maranajdis? Would he welcome them?”
Gajdosik lifted his head at last. “Send them to Caras, O Keppa. Allow Oressa Madalin to return to her home. Give all my people into her hand. Let them become people of Carastind.”
Oressa put in quickly, “I would take them, Kieba. That’s a good solution, for his people and for mine. You should give all of Prince Gajdosik’s men to me, because it’s the right thing to do, and trying to do the right thing may not be any guarantee, but it’s still our best defense against doing what is wrong!”
The Kieba smiled, a thin, ironic expression. “They are yours, then. I trust you will find something useful to do with them. Keep the prince’s ring. If you give it away, I will regard that as a sign you no longer wish to hold those men in your hand. Then I or the kephalos will dispose of them as we see fit. Do you understand?”
Oressa closed her left hand into a fist and put her right over it, a protective gesture. “Yes. I understand.” She didn’t look at Gajdosik, who held very still, as though afraid to draw the Kieba’s attention, or maybe just afraid that he might collapse if he tried to move. But some of the strain went out of his shoulders at Oressa’s assent.
“I will send you out to them,” the Kieba said to Oressa. “Soon. You will inform your brother that though I do not object to taking possession of the item he has sent me, it is not the Capture.”
“I’ll tell him,” Oressa promised.
“Indeed,” the Kieba said in a dry tone. She turned to Gajdosik. “Do you understand, Gajdosik Garamanaj, that I spend all my effort destroying and controlling the plagues that were loosed by the death of the gods? Plagues that can burn out of control—or, worse, smolder out of my sight, hidden in the blood of men as fire hides within coals? Plagues recently made both more virulent and less predictable by Osir Madalin’s inappropriate use of Parianasaku’s Capture.”
Gajdosik said quietly, “I understand.”
“I have been forced to destroy hundreds of men in the day just past in order to burn a firebreak around Elaru in Gontai. Very possibly everyone in the city will die because of your actions. Everyone who leaves the city must assuredly die, for I cannot allow the plague there to scatter across the land. If I miss even one, if I allow the plague to get out into the world, it might burn all across Gontai. It might even reach to Tamarist and then cross the Narrow Sea to this continent also. Do you remotely comprehend what that would mean? That is what you have done in challenging me in the wrong place and at the wrong moment.”
“I am sorry, Keppa. I didn’t know.”
“That does not excuse you. I should send you to Gontai yourself, command you to bury all the dead in the lands around Elaru with your own hands. Only all those folk are ash and smoke now. They will not even lie in graves.”
Gajdosik attempted no answer.
The Kieba regarded the Tamaristan prince silently for another long moment and then said, “However, it seems you may possess a valuable predisposition. We shall ascertain. Sit. Here.” Rising, she indicated the crystal chair with a minimal lift of one hand.
Prince Gajdosik gazed at the chair for a long moment, as though it meant much more to him than it did to Oressa—as though it wasn’t a chair at all, but something else, something dangerous. A weapon, or something worse than a weapon. He turned his head to look at the Kieba and said, his voice strained, “I protest nothing. But must the princess witness this?”
“You may shortly be grateful for her witness, Gajdosik Garamanaj. But I think you mistake me. What do you believe I mean to do to you?”
“Maranajdis,” said Prince Gajdosik, his voice low. “My brother Maranajdis has a chair like that one, only made of iron as well as crystal. . . .” He shut his eyes, as though to shut out the memory of that sight. He shuddered suddenly. Oressa moved impulsively to put a hand on his shoulder. Gajdosik opened his eyes and reached up to grip her hand hard.
The Kieba frowned. “Indeed. For what purpose does your brother employ this artifact?”
Gajdosik took a slow breath and met her eyes. “To destroy his enemies. To destroy their minds. Or, not their minds, but their will. Their volition. To turn them into his slaves. I’ve seen him do it. It is . . . unspeakable.”
The Kieba regarded him curiously. She said after a moment, “I had not known. I have only lately become aware of how much Tamarist’s magisters have hidden from me.” She paused and then added, “But, Prince Gajdosik, I am assuredly not Maranajdis. This is not your brother’s chair. It is not your destruction I intend. If you are destroyed here, it will not be in that way. Do I need to lie to you about this?”
“No,” Gajdosik acknowledged quietly. “No.”
“No. I am telling you the truth. The kephalos will determine your predisposition, if such you possess. But the trial will do you no substantial harm. Now, will you sit?”
Gajdosik took one breath and another. Then he got to his feet. Oressa helped, with a discreet hand beneath his elbow. He gave her a little nod, acknowledging the assistance, or maybe the irony. Then he was still for a moment, gathering his strength or his nerve. At last, without looking at her or at the Kieba, he walked to the indicated chair and lowered himself to sit with slow, deliberate movements. He curled his fingers around the ends of the carved finials on the otherwise plain arms and looked up to meet the Kieba’s inhuman, remorseless gaze.
Needles of black crystal, and white crystal, and water-bright crystal grew suddenly out of the arms of the chair, piercing Gajdosik’s hands and wrists. The prince’s eyes widened and his head went back, but he didn’t jerk away. Oressa flinched on his behalf, looking quickly at the Kieba, but the Kieba’s face was blank. Unreadable.
Gajdosik closed his eyes and opened them again. His eyes moved as though he looked at things invisible to Oressa. His face had gone taut and strained, and she guessed that whatever he saw, those visions were not pleasant. But other than that he did not move.
Then the tension ran out of him, and he slumped in the chair, gasping.
“The predisposition is inadequate,” stated the flat voice of the kephalos. “No secondary identity can be established.”
Oressa had no idea whether this was good or bad and looked anxiously at the Kieba, trying to judge her response. Her smooth face was very hard to read.
“Unfortunate,” said the Kieba, but not as though she cared greatly one way or the other. She said to Gajdosik, her tone abrupt and indifferent, “Tell me about your brother’s things of power. You have seen him use remnants of the gods’ tools, you say. Explain what you have seen.”
Gajdosik had now leaned his head against the back of the chair. His eyes were open but glazed. He looked a bit like a man who had had
too much wine at a banquet. Only it wasn’t precisely like that, either. Oressa’s experience with drunken men was limited, but in that limited experience, drunken men usually looked more witless and less strained than Gajdosik.
“There are needles in the chair,” he said. His voice was low, a little unsteady, but clear, not a whisper. “Like these. They pierce a man’s neck and hands. The blood comes down from the wounds, and the chair drinks the blood and turns red as blood, and there’s a sound like serpents hissing. It swallows his mind, but not his memories. . . . He’ll remember his wife; he’ll call her by name, but he won’t care for her; he’ll strangle her if Maranajdis commands it. He won’t care—”
“Again,” commanded the Kieba. “Recall this in more detail. Describe the carving on the chair, describe the needles.”
Oressa realized, listening to Gajdosik, that this must be one of the things that the Kieba’s chair did: No one could have remembered so much detail about such small things. It was interesting and no doubt useful, but also rather disturbing. Or maybe it was just this Maranajdis who was disturbing. She listened to Gajdosik describe his brother’s chair as though it were in front of him, as though he watched, right now, the destruction of one of his brother’s enemies. Sometimes he spoke in Tamaj, but though he slurred his words a little, Oressa understood most of what he said.
“Ghemast Bhakrajda,” murmured Gajdosik, naming the man his brother had made strangle his own wife. “He is one of our father’s men. He is old and clever, and he never favored Maranajdis. Brave but stupid, to let Maranajdis guess. I could have taken Bhakrajda for mine; he would have brought me the whole east and half the north. I might have taken the throne myself, but Maranajdis got him first. I couldn’t protect him. I tried. I did try.” Prince Gajdosik’s voice shook. “His blood feeds the chair, his mind . . . His face is the same, but there is nothing left behind his eyes. No one will dare defy Maranajdis now. I thought I—but it’s too late now.”
Oressa felt ill. As far as she could tell, however, the Kieba felt nothing at all. She said in that same indifferent tone, “This is Shakanatu’s Throne. I can see how it might be turned to such a use. What other fragments of the old magic does Maranajdis possess?”
“I don’t know,” murmured Gajdosik. “None of us know. Not even Djerkest knows. He says Maranajdis must have acquired powerful artifacts and by that taken up the aspect of a god. Ininoreh maybe, or maybe Tolturantis. One of the violent gods—or one of the shadowed goddesses, Toromah or Gusanara. He’s too powerful. I’ve lost men. Maranajdis will destroy anyone he knows is mine. . . .”
“Do your other brothers possess artifacts? Have they also raised up aspects?”
“Bherijda, he’s got something; I’m sure he does. He killed Kedje; I’m sure that was his hand. Poor Kedje; he blew away on the wind, gray dust on the wind. . . .”
“Tonkaïan’s Resolve?” The Kieba’s tone had sharpened. “Is it possible that is what your brother Bherijda holds?”
“I don’t . . . He hates me, and how can I fight him now? I have to get out. I have to get my people away from Tamarist. . . .” His face tightened, his voice trailing off again as he was absorbed by memory.
The Kieba, frowning, began to ask something else, but Oressa stepped forward impulsively and asked, “So you’ll come to Carastind. Is that what you’ll do? Come to Carastind and seize power there?”
“Carastind is weak,” whispered Gajdosik. “That plague this spring weakened them; there’s opportunity in that. Besides, Carastind’s princess is the right age; she’s the key. If I can take the princess, she’ll bring me her whole country. Maranajdis will win Tamarist, but Bherijda’s the one who will follow me across the Narrow Sea. I have to take Carastind first, or Bherijda will close his hand on it. Carastind will yield to me readily enough once the people realize Bherijda’s their only other option. I can find some powerful artifact, force Bherijda back to Tamarist to fight Maranajdis. That will give me a few years to establish myself in Carastind, find a way to counter them both. . . .”
This was all more disturbing than Oressa had expected. She bit her lip, then prompted, “But it didn’t work, did it?”
Gajdosik answered, his voice dull. “No. It didn’t work. The Keppa may be dead, as Djerkest insists. She must be dead at last, for if not, we have no chance. But the young Carastindin prince got hold of one of the Keppa’s tools.” Blinking, Gajdosik lifted his head, squinting at the Kieba as though dimly aware something about this wasn’t quite right.
“Did he?” murmured the Kieba, lifting her eyebrows. “But did he take up an abandoned tool, or was he given it? Do you truly believe the Keppa is dead? If you are mistaken and she yet lives, surely it must be dangerous to intrude upon her?”
Gajdosik shook his head. “Not . . . not as it once was. Our magisters, what they found . . . Maranajdis . . . and Bherijda . . . Bherijda wants to find the Keppa still living. He thinks he can take her power whole, rival even Maranajdis. He can’t be allowed. . . . But if he’s wrong . . . If Djerkest is right and she is dead at last, following the gods she always served . . . He must be right about that, or surely the Carastindin prince would never have been able to take up her autajma, which she ever guarded closely.” Gajdosik turned his head, blinking at Oressa. He said earnestly, “It’s too much old magic loose in the world. Got to be careful. Disaster and opportunity. I’ve got to get the Keppa’s power myself, or Bherijda will take it, and we’ll be crushed between him and Maranajdis. But we didn’t expect anyone in Carastind to find fragments of the old gods’ magic. Or use what they found. Ignorant as pigs. Always been too afraid of the Keppa to study the old magic. . . .”
“Yet they may have been wise, to fear the Keppa’s power,” suggested the Kieba.
“Maybe, maybe. Doesn’t matter now, no choice . . . We’ve lost too much, Djerkest has to get me something I can use.” Gajdosik leaned forward, blinking, his voice gathering intensity. “He has to. I have to have it. If that Carastindin prince can use the Keppa’s magic, Djerkest can. If we can only get something to counter Bherijda and Maranajdis, I might take Tamarist after all, eventually, if I can use Carastind to strengthen my position. Gods dead and forgotten, let me only defeat Maranajdis and Bherijda and I do not even care who might take the throne; let Ajei have it, or Emarast would do better by Tamarist, if he lives. . . .”
He slid into rapid Tamaj, a harsh whisper, hard for Oressa to follow. “But then that went wrong, too,” she suggested in Esse.
“It all went wrong,” Gajdosik agreed wearily, following her into the same language. “I’ve lost . . . everything.” He leaned his head back again and shut his eyes. “Poor Djerkest, not his fault, I should have guessed. . . . Of course the girl would lay a trap if she could; she’s a clever one. . . . Stupid, blind, overconfident . . . Nothing I can do now. I’ve got nothing left. Maybe she’ll try to protect my people. She might . . . might care to do that. . . . She’s kind, I think. Best I can do . . . Can’t do anything else. . . .”
Oressa found that she was biting her lip. She’d been fascinated by this chance to question Gajdosik, but this exhausted despair was not something she had been prepared for. She shot a look at the Kieba, then moved to lay a hand on Gajdosik’s shoulder. The exhaustion in the prince’s face eased a little. Oressa looked again at the Kieba, wishing now just for this to be over.
The Kieba did not move or speak. But the needles drew back into the arms of the chair. Gajdosik, freed, leaned slowly forward, dropping his face into his hands. He didn’t make a sound, but fine tremors went through his body. Oressa rather helplessly patted his shoulder and wished Laasat were here. The Tamaristan prince did not seem exactly unconscious, but not really conscious either.
A golem shifted in the doorway: one of the small war golems. It entered, its steel-and-glass claws clicking on the darker crystal of the floor. It closed its claws around Gajdosik’s arms and hips, lifting him gently. Gajdosik did not fight the golem, but he flinched and shuddered, his breath hissing.
“Wait!” Oressa said sharply.
“It will only take him to a quiet room where he may rest,” the Kieba told her. “You may go with him. The kephalos will have left all his recent memories uncertain. He will need a friend he trusts to tell him what is true. You must take care with what you say, however, as he will believe anything you tell him.”
“Oh. Oh. But then Laasat—” But Oressa paused, realizing how little Prince Gajdosik would wish any man of his, even Laasat, to see him in such a defenseless state. How little he would want her to see him like that. But perhaps even she was better than one of his men. She discovered she was biting her lip again and made herself stop. Then she hurried after the golem, which had not paused to wait for her, fearing lest it take Gajdosik away and leave her behind.
CHAPTER 14
Gulien leaned forward, squinting at the two figures making their way down the mountain, and then sat back; he was almost certain that both of those people were men and both wearing Tamaristan uniforms. He was entirely certain neither was his sister. If that Tamaristan bastard had taken her up onto the Kieba’s mountain and lost her there . . . If the Kieba had let Gajdosik go but kept his sister . . . He had better not run too far ahead of his actual knowledge, but it was hard. Gathering his reins, Gulien turned his horse sharply and rode along the bank of the river toward the mountain, weaving between the cottonwoods and then sending his horse splashing into the river where it was shallowest.
His company jolted into startled movement, though Aran quickly sorted that out, detailing a handful of soldiers to follow Gulien and the rest to stay where they were and also gesturing the Tamaristan karanat to stop when the other made to follow. Over his shoulder, Gulien snapped, “Bring him,” without slowing down. Over among the farmhouses, there was confused motion among the other Tamaristans. Gulien ignored them, other than one glance to be sure they were not showing any signs of forming up for attack.
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