Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  The prolonged workout made him so weary that twice he found himself thinking of things other than Arias. Then the grief would come, strengthened by guilt at his fickle mind. Chiss was not there, but someone had left warm water and cloths so that he could clean up the sweat and dirt of the ring. Finally clean and with a cup of wine inside him, Callo sat in the chair by the window and stared out at the dusty sun of late afternoon.

  There was a tap on the door. No doubt it was someone looking to offer sympathy. He said, “Go away,” but Kirian slipped inside anyway, closing the door behind her.

  He stood and drew her into his arms, enclosing her in his embrace, her cheek resting on his shoulder. It seemed she held back for a moment, but then she sighed.

  “Callo,” she whispered, “I am sorry.”

  Callo closed his eyes and rested in her embrace. She was warm and soft, and she radiated comfort. Her short, spiky hair stood up as if it had recently been washed, tickling his chin. As they enfolded each other he could feel a small glow of renewal. He sighed and asked, “What did you do today, then?”

  She shook her head, bumping his chin. “Nothing. It was not a good day to do anything useful. I watched you in the ring for a while, did you see me?”

  “No. I am sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She drew him to the curtained bed and made him sit down. He leaned back on the embroidered pillow. She did not join him on the bed, as he hoped, but sat at the table and began working with some herbs she had carried into the room with her, stripping the leaves and letting them fall into a clay pot. The herbs exuded a sweet fragrance.

  Gradually Callo’s shoulders relaxed, and he sighed and turned his eyes to her anxious face.

  “Lord Ander was disturbed about your vow,” Kirian said. “But now he believes it was just the product of grief, and that you will not really harm the King.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that when your other obligation is fulfilled, you will do as you say.”

  “You need not go with me to Sugetre,” he said. “I will be a little while yet, making plans. You should think of where else you might like to go.”

  “Why would I not go with you?”

  “I can’t name all the reasons. It is dangerous to be associated with me. I have sworn to slay the King after Ander is safely guarded. Once Sharpeyes realizes what I intend, he will give up his plan of making me his heir. He will declare me traitor, and my head forfeit, and those of any who helped me. This is not a good thing I go towards, Kirian. I would rather think you safe, back at Seagard, or in Sugetre if you choose.”

  “I thought you would try to get rid of me.” She looked up at his face. Her eyes looked tired.

  “I do not want to get rid of you.”

  “Then stop pushing me away.”

  “But it is not safe for you. You do not deserve this chaos, this running around Righar always on guard against attack, with no clothes or maidservants or even a predictable place to sleep every night.”

  “Give me a little credit,” she said. There was a hint of sharpness in her voice. “I am not a fool, Callo, just because I am a woman and a commoner.”

  “I never said that.” He rubbed his eyes, which were stinging again with grief and exhaustion. Her tone of voice eased.

  “You are grieving, and not thinking.”

  He sighed. It was true, he could not think. Every time he tried to consider the future, he would remember Arias, laughing or dragging him into some escapade, or challenging him—with endless optimism—to a contest in the ring Arias stood no chance of winning. The world would be a barren place without him.

  “You wish to be rid of me, so you can pursue your vengeance without distraction,” Kirian’s soft voice said. “I did think, just this morning, that I might return to Seagard Village—but no, I cannot leave you under these circumstances.”

  It was true that Kirian would be a distraction from the brittle single-mindedness he would have to cultivate in order to commit regicide. It would not be easy, keeping his sense of purpose for when he could safely leave the boy and claim vengeance for Arias. It would not be long, he promised himself—long enough to finalize the defenses they had set in place, and make sure there was a better way to defend against the possible use of color magery in an attack. Even more important than his vengeance was making sure Martan’s schemes were brought to nothing—and that meant making sure Callo was never forced to take the throne of Righar.

  Chapter Five

  Callo awoke the next day to an ominous pressure in his head. By the time he was dressed, he had snapped at Chiss twice and apologized twice. Standing at the door to his chamber, ready to go down to breakfast and then to confer with Lord Zelan, he stopped and felt the walls pulsing around him.

  “Chiss, I cannot go down.”

  “I thought something was wrong, my lord.”

  “Another headache. I think it is going to be worse than the others.” Already the pressure had metamorphosed into a stabbing pain.

  Chiss put a hand on Callo’s arm and drew him back to his bed. “This is the fourth one, Lord Callo. What is happening?”

  “Don’t know.” Callo sat down and let Chiss pull off his boots. “Chiss, please get more of that remedy from the Healer. Go now—my head is splitting.”

  Chiss was gone for what felt like a year. Callo lay motionless on his bed, eyes closed. It was as if a blacksmith worked inside his head, pounding on his skull. After a while he realized some vision was playing itself out in his brain; he heard his own voice echo in the room, and came to full awareness to see Chiss bending over him.

  “Did you call, my lord?”

  Callo stared at Chiss, still caught in the vision, and did not reply for a moment. Finally Callo said, “The remedy?”

  “The man isn’t here. Went to one of the villages on a call. Hon Kirian was filling in for him. I have asked her to come instead, my lord.”

  “No.”

  “Too late.” Kirian’s round face appeared in Callo’s painful vision. He turned his face away from her, but there was little he could do to object in this condition. Kirian’s cool hands were on his forehead, testing for fever, then turning his face back to hers to look into his eyes. He did not want her to see him like this. Gathering every ounce of will, he pushed her hands away and sat up. The room spun around as if he were drunk.

  “I don’t need you,” he said.

  “You certainly do,” she said. “So it’s you that’s been having the headaches, not Chiss.”

  Callo did not reply. The vision was trying to come back again, partially blotting out Kirian’s face in a whorl of color and light. He felt hands push him gently back onto the bed. He heard Chiss murmuring to Kirian, and heard the clink of pottery as she mixed something in a cup. Then Chiss’ hands were behind his shoulders, lifting him as someone presented a cup to his lips. The aromas of rueberry, mellweed and wine assaulted his senses. He groaned and turned away.

  “Drink it, my lord,” Chiss said. “It will help.”

  The white light grew behind his eyelids, and he thought he heard Som’ur’s voice, the brutal ku’an god who had accepted him at the temple in Las’ash. He opened his mouth to ask if the others heard the voice, and the remedy tipped into his mouth. He swallowed and coughed, then swallowed again. He was lowered back down on the pillow.

  “How long . . .?” Kirian’s voice, talking to Chiss, trailed off into vision. He felt his internal barrier grow thin, as if it were under some assault; he struggled to keep the barrier whole, to keep inside the ku’an magery he could use to influence others against their will. At the same time, the white light turned into color magery and fought him. It boiled up like the liquid fire of a volcano. He felt the color magery begin to spill out of him. He struck out with his sword arm, fighting it back.

  “My lord,” came Chiss’ voice near him. “Calm down, my lord, there is nothing here to fight.”

  Chiss could not see the energies ready to pour out of him. “Out of the way,�
� Callo gasped to the manservant. “I can’t control it—too much pain.”

  Chiss said, “It’s all right, my lord.” He stayed close, too close, keeping a firm grip on Callo’s upper arms, holding him down. Surely Chiss knew what he was dealing with. He had helped him fight the ku’an magery all these years, and he had seen Callo’s battle against the color magery on board ship from Ha’las.

  Kirian’s voice said, “Callo, take it easy. The herbs will take effect in a few minutes. You will be all right.” Her voice struck his internal battle like calming oil poured on troubled waters. He stilled, listening.

  “Keep talking to me,” he asked.

  “If you wish. First you will feel the mellweed, calming a little. I did not give you enough to put you to sleep. I know how you dislike that, so I used only as much as I needed. You might feel sleepy as the pain goes, though. As for the rueberry . . .” Her voice went on, soothing. He did not listen to her words, just her voice, as the rebellious energies receded and his internal wall was reestablished, protecting him and everyone else. Eventually he said: “Thank you.”

  “You are feeling better?”

  “Yes. Just a little pain now, and no . . .” He stopped himself before he said voices, or vision, or any other thing that might lead them to question his sanity.

  “No, what?” Kirian asked.

  “Nothing.” He opened his eyes and saw them leaning over him, faces pale and worried. Chiss removed his restraining hands from Callo’s arms. Callo felt as if someone had wrung him out, as if his body were a piece of limp clothing on the washerwoman’s board. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Kirian began feeling his forehead, taking his pulse, looking into his eyes, and doing all the things a Healer does. She was cool and professional, and did not speak. By the time she was done he was feeling sleepy with the mellweed and the relief from pain. He yawned.

  “You’ll do,” she said. “Sleep, if you want. But I insist on seeing you as soon as you awaken. Chiss says this is your fourth headache since we have arrived. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “I doubt there is anything you can do about it, other than be there with a dose when needed.”

  “Why is that, my lord?” Chiss asked.

  Callo grimaced and sat up. The pain was gone, and his stomach was growling. “It’s the color magery. It’s almost too much for me—holding back the psychic magery while fighting to control the color magery. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You need a color mage to advise you,” Kirian said. Her eyes shifted away from his gaze. Now that he seemed to be recovering, she stepped back, away from him.

  “Young Ander has been telling me what he has been taught.”

  Kirian pursed her lips. “I am doubtful that a fourteen-year-old can understand what you are going through. And remember, you have more than just color magery to deal with.”

  “Thanks to Sharpeyes and his damned breeding experiment.”

  She smiled, but the expression was fleeting. “Callo, I think you need another mage. Someone who is capable of dealing with all this complexity before . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, before it is too late, if you want to know,” she said. Her voice was unexpectedly cool; Callo frowned, puzzled at her demeanor.

  “There is Mage Oron, in Sugetre,” Chiss suggested.

  Callo shook his head at that, and then was sorry as the pain reminded him it had been only recently overcome. “Mage Oron is the King’s man.”

  “He is an estimable man,” Chiss said. “Lord Arias valued him.”

  “He still belongs to the King.”

  Kirian spoke with a controlled tension that alerted him before he even comprehended the words. “There is a mage healer who usually lives away from Sugetre, a legend at the Healer’s College—a charity case like me, who turned out to be an abandoned half-righ color mage. This mage is the only Healer who can work with troubled mages. Have you heard of him?”

  “Hell, yes,” Callo said. “I refuse to see Yhallin Magegard.”

  “Magegard?”

  “Popular name,” Chiss explained to her. “Sort of a joke on the Collared Lords. Yhallin treats and restrains color mages who are insane.”

  Kirian looked at Callo again, flushing a little. “I meant no offense. But you don’t even realize how this is overtaking you, Callo. You show signs that you will lose control of it all. There is danger to you and to others around you.”

  Callo shoved the drug-induced sleepiness away and got up. “It will be under control. The color magery—I am working on. The psychic magery is locked down as tight as ever it was before all this started.”

  Kirian flushed. “Perhaps you are wrong about that,” she said.

  “Look, I am not yet insane,” Callo argued.

  She relaxed from her unexpected wariness a little and smiled. “All the righ are crazy, my lord.”

  “Indeed,” Chiss said with a wealth of meaning in the single word.

  “I am shocked to hear you say so,” Callo said. It was easy to slip back into the banter, letting the pain and the terrifying assault on his senses be pushed into the background. He began to put his arm around Kirian, but she stepped away from him and began to gather up her Healer’s bag, not looking at him.

  His stomach growled again, and Chiss said: “I think you are feeling better, my lord.”

  “Thank you both,” Callo said. “I don’t know what I would have done without your aid.”

  Chiss smiled, but Kirian said nothing. After they left the room Callo went down to breakfast feeling almost as if nothing had happened—except for the troubling memory of how Kirian had shied away from his embrace.

  That afternoon Callo joined Lord Ander in the boy’s workroom and watched him finish a portrait of his tutor while waiting for the boy to be free. Sugetre was a center for the arts, Queen Efalla encouraging them with her patronage, so Callo had seen examples of the finest drawing, painting and sculpture. Ander’s work was not as dainty and highly-finished as the work now popular in the capital, but it had a vibrant life that made it appealing.

  The painting Ander was finishing of the tutor Shan-il was very good. He had caught the awareness in the man’s eyes, and even the texture of his black hair. Callo looked at the tutor with an eye accustomed to sizing up an opponent, saw the lean muscles and graceful movements, and thought swordsman. He wondered what such a man was doing in this position, teaching the boy about mathematics and astronomy and politics, and the history of the Collared Lords.

  Perhaps Dria Mar understood Ander’s weakness, and had tried to get a tutor to hone his leadership abilities. Manipulative as Sharpeyes was, at least the King was strong. He kept his unruly lords and mages from breaking out into rebellion, thus protecting the ordinary people of Righar. Ander was likeable and intelligent, and apparently a skilled color mage. In spite of the ability he would have to magically bind the righ, he would need more than those attributes to rule over Righar’s demanding nobility and bind its powerful mages to his will.

  Ander turned his head as he heard a knock at the door. “Yes, who is it?”

  Lord Zelan’s personal guard walked in. “My lord Ander. Lord Zelan awaits you at the stables, for the Hunt.”

  “I’m not going on the stupid Hunt!”

  “Lord Zelan said I was to bring you now, my lord, even if I had to carry you over my shoulder.”

  Ander’s thin face flamed. “How dare you!” He cut himself off, waving the guard away. “I’d like to see you try, Obin. You don’t dare handle me like that. You tell my lord father he and the Hunt can . . .”

  “My lord!” the guard said.

  “Lord Ander,” Callo interrupted. “Surely this man will be disciplined if he returns without you.”

  Ander’s jaw was still outthrust, his eyes glittering. “There aren’t any gods-cursed icetigers left. I won’t go!”

  “Then tell your father that yourself, Lord Ander. Don’t put this guardsman between you and Lord Zelan’s anger. A ki
ng should not do such.”

  Ander’s arrested gaze flew to Callo’s face. The guardsman’s worried eyes did, too. Then the boy said, “I don’t think King Martan would worry about such a thing.”

  Callo shrugged. “That is probably true.”

  Ander threw the book he was holding to the floor. Callo thought Ander went from the shrewd intelligence of a much-older boy back to childhood, in the blink of an eye. Perhaps this was usual for a boy in his teens; yet, these tantrums were not suitable for a King. The memory of King Ar’ok in Las’ash fled across his mind like the shadow of a hawk, bringing doubt with it.

  “Oh, all right,” Ander said. “Obin, I will get my leathers and join Lord Zelan. If I am killed by ambush on this cursed Hunt you can thank yourself, Lord Callo!”

  Callo bowed. Obin’s gaze was grateful. Callo wondered what Zelan would have done to punish him had he not succeeded in bringing the heir back with him. He had never heard ill of Zelan, but the Collared Lords in general were well known for their brutality when their wishes were crossed.

  Callo rode out alone the next morning, refusing any company. He took Miri away from the manse, away from the little villages and their surrounding farmland, and headed up the slopes to the edge of the mountains where the icetigers had come from many years ago. It was deep summer now, so the snow had retreated to the very peaks of the mountains. Thornbushes and weeds blanketed the lower slopes. A hunter’s trail cut through the brush, just wide enough for Miri. It was rarely used now, he thought; Lord Zelan still hunted the big predators as his Collar commanded, but the big hunt parties were a thing of the past. Now it was only Zelan and a couple of aging Hunters, patrolling the area in a fruitless search for the ancient danger.

  Miri was in a fine mood, almost prancing as she took the slope. They were traveling out of the worst of the heat, up into the foothills. After a while the work took the edge off Miri’s restlessness, and the slope grew steeper. Callo continued on, stopping for lunch and to water Miri at a clear stream, then rode another candlemark or so before finding a place that suited him. He dropped Miri’s rein over a tangle of branches and went on a little way, to where a rocky area created a small clearing.