The Wanderers

by Paula Brandon

  He won’t survive this. Aureste thrust the thought away. Innesq would be well enough, for many years to come—he had to be. No acceptable alternative existed.

  And it seemed that Innesq intended no immediate departure, for he was sitting very straight and upright in his chair, preparing to address the group.

  “My companions”—Innesq lifted his habitually low-toned voice to make himself heard—“surely we have all noticed the extraordinary properties of the mists filling this valley. First and most striking is the matter of their appearance. I, for one, have never before beheld a fog emitting its own light, and I can only speculate as to the cause. Far more important than appearance, however, is—”

  “Is getting this laid out clear to everyone, without a load of schoolmastery dragging it down.” The strong Taerleezi twang of Ojem Pridisso effortlessly overrode Innesq. “You’re doing as well as you can, Belandor, and I commend you for it, but right now we need a good, levelheaded set of instructions, and that’s my kind of business. So I’m sure you won’t mind if I step up and take over. You can just relax and save your strength.” Advancing a couple of paces, he contrived to position himself at the front of the group.

  Aureste regarded the Taerleezi arcanist with loathing. During the course of the journey, Ojem Pridisso had shed a good deal of his initial flamboyance. The jerkin of glazed eelskin and the red-heeled boots had given way to garments of simpler style and greater practicality. But he clung yet to the annoying mock rustic cap, with its showy black plume caught in a jeweled clasp. And he clung to his utterly baseless presumption of authority. He now ventured to interrupt and verbally trample Innesq Belandor, an individual immeasurably his superior in breeding, intellect, and arcane ability. It was insupportable.

  “Master Pridisso.” Aureste’s tone was ominously mellifluous. “My brother was speaking, I think.”

  “Eh?” Pridisso frowned.

  “Perhaps you did not mark him.”

  “Well, no rudeness intended to anyone, but it’s a bit late in the day for standing on ceremony, wouldn’t you say? Now then—”

  “Master Pridisso.” Aureste’s rich voice took on a note of sadness. “You have offered my brother a discourtesy. An apology is indicated.”

  “Piffle. Now, as I was saying—”

  Aureste took a single long step forward, and was halted by the pressure of Innesq’s hand on his arm. He looked down into his brother’s face.

  No. Innesq mouthed the word silently. An almost imperceptible shake of the head punctuated the soundless command.

  For a moment Aureste wavered, then something in Innesq’s steady eyes and the clasp of his hand seemed to exert a calming effect. He nodded, and the hand withdrew.

  He had come within a twitch of striking Pridisso. Unwise. Childish, in fact. But the impulse had been powerful.

  “Continue, Master Pridisso,” Innesq encouraged.

  “Fine to see at least one Faerlonnishman of good sense and good nature,” Pridisso muttered. Drawing a breath, he resumed, “As I was saying, we’ve all noticed these peculiar mists all about, and I expect we’ve all noticed that they’re doing things to us. At least, anyone with his or her eyes open must have caught it, but maybe that just doesn’t apply to everyone here.” His condemnatory gaze rested for a moment upon Aureste. “Right here, in this place, it’s like each and every one of us has had one too many glasses of wine. Now, the arcanists among us, with our special abilities, knowledge, and discipline, know how to handle this kind of thing. We rule our own minds and emotions. But the others, those of you lacking the arcane talent and training, you’re the ones who need to take particular care. You’re the ones really vulnerable to loony urges, the ones likely to lose self-control and act like children or drunkards, as we’ve just witnessed, so you need to look sharp. But don’t worry. We four arcanists will be keeping our eyes open, and if any of you start getting into trouble, we’re here to pull you back from the edge. So, friends, don’t fear, but take care. Well, I think that about covers it, so let’s pick up our bundles and start moving.”

  The imbecile had finished. Aureste stood considering the interjection of an apposite comment or two. Did his two fellow inferior beings share his outrage? He looked at Yvenza, whose countenance revealed nothing at all. Whatever her thoughts, if any, she was not letting them show. His glance flicked to Sonnetia, whose beautiful face was arranged in an expression of grave attentiveness. But the corners of her lips were slightly downturned in a manner that he recalled from years ago. Sonnetia was strenuously containing a burst of laughter. The humor of the situation struck him then, and his annoyance retreated. She caught his eye, and the downturned lips twitched. He smiled in response, and the insults of Ojem Pridisso dwindled into insignificance.

  Throughout the ensuing hours, the luminous mists of the defile filled their lungs and filtered into their blood. Aureste could feel the effect, and it was not unpleasant. A sense of heightened confidence and optimism filled him. He knew himself equal to any challenge, and never doubted the ultimate success of all his ventures. He would conduct his brother to the appropriate locale, where Innesq would set arcane matters right, with or without the assistance of lesser arcanists. Then they would return to a renewed and thriving Vitrisi, where he and Sonnetia would become one. There would be a splendid wedding, at which the bride’s train might be carried by her new stepdaughter Jianna, who would by this time have found her way home to the magnificently restored Belandor House … And if some cold voice of reason inside his head attempted to raise objections, the Magnifico Aureste had become, for the moment, adept at disregarding that voice.

  Time passed without further incident. Aureste walked near Sonnetia, but scrupulously avoided all appearance of familiarity. He could feel Vinzille’s eyes boring into him throughout the afternoon, and managed, through rigorous exercise of willpower, to refrain from goading the lad. Vinzille, after all, possessed no lasting importance. When Sonnetia came to Belandor House as its new mistress, her son could assume his own rightful place as master of Corvestri Mansion. That ought to keep the little troll occupied and out of the way.

  The afternoon wore on, and he noticed the difficulty of gauging the hour. The odd character of the mists changed and disguised the natural daylight. The day might be drawing to its close and he would scarcely know it, or so he imagined.

  In fact, when evening drew near, his internal mechanisms informed him. Moreover, the air cooled and the ambient light altered perceptibly. As the natural skies darkened overhead, the flickering, mutable quality of the mistglow grew increasingly apparent.

  Halting for the night, they kindled a cookfire whose leaping flames intensified the eccentric instability of the illumination. A simple meal was prepared. Aureste ate, and lost himself in contemplation of a glorious future.

  The pale mists were aglow, the eerie light trembling, as two figures met, some little distance from the campfire. One moved as if driven by demons; the other appeared to float on the breeze. They halted, face-to-face.

  Yvenza Belandor was haggard with the strain of the journey. She had lost weight, and her garments hung loosely on her tall frame. The harsh lines bracketing her mouth had deepened. This evening, however, her normally sallow cheeks were flushed with color, and her grey eyes reflected the glow of the atmosphere.

  “You’ve made acceptable progress,” Yvenza declared. “You’ve done well enough so far, and now it’s time for the next step.” Her words were uncharacteristically hurried, and almost breathless, as if impelled by force from within. “You’ve gained Vinzille’s friendship, or so you’ve claimed. I assume you know better than to lie to me.”

  Her listener, slight of form, and insubstantial as the fog, said nothing.

  “Now it’s time to go forward,” Yvenza continued. “You’ll tell him that you’ve overheard Aureste Belandor boasting that he’ll take the Magnifica Sonnetia’s honor and smash it. He’ll label her whore and hear her name bandied in jest about the dirtiest taverns of the Spidery. This h
e will do in hatred of House Corvestri, and all its members.”

  Nissi stared at her.

  “You understand what you must do?” Yvenza prodded.

  There was a span of silence, and then Nissi whispered, “Vinzille would not … believe.”

  “Certainly he would, if the ground has been well prepared. It’s your business to make him believe.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You must find a way. That’s your task, and there’s no room for failure.” No immediate answer, and Yvenza pressed, “Well?”

  Silence.

  “This will be the end of it,” Yvenza elaborated unexpectedly. The quick words, edged with repressed excitement, spilled out of her. “The end of that murdering kneeser, the end of long injustice—the right ending at last. You see that, don’t you? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you see or not. You’ll do what has to be done.”

  “Not the right ending.” Nissi’s voice barely existed.

  “What’s that?”

  “Not right for Vinzille. Or for Master Innesq.”

  “They don’t matter.”

  “They … do.”

  “They’ll be all right. Either or both may mope a bit, but then it will pass, and the world will be a better place. Now go to work.” The silence expanded. Yvenza’s brows knit, and her voice sharpened. “You know that I expect obedience. I demand it. Refuse me, and I cast you off. You’ll be alone in the world—entirely alone. If you’d rely upon your precious Master Innesq to look after you, then you’re a fool. Once this journey ends and you’ve served your purpose, he’ll have no further use for you.”

  Nissi’s eyes fell.

  “Shall I cut you adrift, then? Or will you obey?”

  Nissi hovered like a cloud stirred by invisible internal currents. Seconds passed, and then a tiny, barely recognizable voice emerged.

  “I … cannot.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “Then—” Nissi lifted lambent eyes more brilliant than ever before. “I will not.”

  “What did you say to me?”

  “I said … no.”

  For a moment, Yvenza stared, as if seeking to shrivel the other with a glance, but Nissi sustained the flaming regard successfully.

  “There’s something wrong with you,” Yvenza observed slowly. “You are not yourself.”

  “Here and now, we are all of us ourselves—even you,” Nissi murmured. “Perhaps only this once.”

  “I’ll hear no riddles from you. No excuses or arguments, either. I took you in when you were no kin of mine. I sheltered and fed you, gave you a home when you had none. You owe me your loyalty, your obedience, your very life. You owe me more than you can ever repay. Would you betray me as Falaste betrayed me? You will not, for I won’t allow it. I’ll never let you go.” Yvenza blinked, as if in surprise at the words issuing from her own mouth.

  Nissi made no reply.

  “Are you an ingrate? A coward? Or both?”

  Silence.

  “I give you a last chance to recover my favor. Will you obey me?”

  And Nissi breathed, “No.”

  A harsh caw of fury escaped Yvenza, and her lips drew back from her teeth. Her arm lifted as if imbued with a life of its own, and she backhanded the other across the face.

  Nissi tottered. A patch of red marked her pale flesh, and she raised one hand to her cheek. For a moment she stood staring with enormous eyes, then turned to flee.

  Catching a handful of flyaway moonspun hair in one fist, Yvenza jerked the girl to a halt.

  Aureste was roused from a pleasant reverie by the sound of a discordant cry, followed by the grunts and thuds of some scuffle. He did not pause to note the reactions of his companions, but rose to his feet at once and went off in search of the source.

  Evening had fallen, but the surrounding mists were charged with soft light, and he could see quite clearly. A few yards from the cookfire, Yvenza Belandor was engaged in beating the girl Nissi. The victim—shoulders hunched, and hands up to shield her face—made no sound, and no effort to resist.

  For a moment, Aureste looked on in disgust. Violence between women was a thing most distasteful in general. And Yvenza in particular—face darkly flushed and twisted with fury—was at this moment truly ugly. It was curious, though. He had never beheld such raw and undisguised emotion upon her face. When he had tortured and executed her son before her eyes—when he had reduced her home to rubble and left her destitute—she had never revealed the smallest flicker of feeling. And now rage ruled her.

  This place, these mists. Even Yvenza was not immune to their influence.

  And the little white thing, Nissi. What a weakling, what a poor, drooping, ghost of a creature, to endure such treatment without fighting back. If she were half the arcanist that Innesq and the others took her for, she would blast her abuser halfway into the next millennium. A being so unwilling to help herself deserved no assistance.

  Aureste considered retiring in silence. Let Yvenza discipline her spineless little slavey as she saw fit. Why trouble to interfere? But then, Innesq set great store by the girl, and would surely wish to protect her. Beyond that, Nissi was one of the valuable arcanists of the group, and must not suffer damage. Beyond even that, the rescue of Nissi would greatly disoblige Yvenza—always a consummation to be wished.

  “Enough of this. Release her.” A few quick steps brought him to them. He repeated the command, to no avail. Yvenza appeared deaf to his voice; appeared, in fact, unaware of his presence. As she raised her clenched fist to strike again, he caught her wrist, arresting the blow. The intervention caught her attention, and she turned on him with a snarl.

  “Control yourself, madam, lest you be taken for a madwoman, and governed as such.” His apparent assurance concealed some surprise. The arm that he held was almost as strong as a man’s. Real effort was required to restrain her.

  When two or three quick twists failed to break his hold, she loosed her grip on Nissi’s hair and drove a clenched fist at his face. He jerked his forearm up in time to deflect the blow, then thrust her forcibly from him. She staggered back several paces, and Nissi seized the opportunity to flee. Yvenza took a step as if to follow, and Aureste interposed himself, blocking her way.

  “Give over,” he advised contemptuously. “You embarrass yourself.”

  She appeared to forget Nissi. The wide-open, glittering eyes that fastened on his face scarcely seemed human. The bared teeth were pure carnivore.

  “You,” muttered Yvenza, deep in her throat. “Always you.”

  “At your service.” His air of mockery was wholly artificial. In truth, her uncanny eyes and contorted mouth unsettled him. The woman was unhinged. There was no telling what she might do.

  Nevertheless, he was taken by surprise when Yvenza’s hand jumped to some unseen opening or pocket within her garments and emerged grasping a dagger. She was mad. She actually meant to kill him, here and now. He recognized the look. He had confronted it more than once, but never before seen it in the eyes of a woman. His brief pang of startled alarm gave way at once to calculation.

  He was entitled to defend his own life, even against a woman’s attack—indeed, compelled to do so. Despite her strength and madness, he was still stronger than she and surely possessed greater expertise with the knife. He could draw his own weapon, feint once or twice, thrust home—and there would be an end to Yvenza. He might rid himself of her once and for all, and nobody could reasonably blame him.

  But they would blame him, all the same; at least, some of them would. An armed man, stooping to engage in combat with an old woman? Pathetic, and worse, tinged with comedy. Moreover, there were some among his fellow travelers still harping upon the unpleasantness of Vinz Corvestri’s demise, and Yvenza’s death at his hands would furnish additional excuse for criticism.

  Win or lose, a duel with the hag would render him ridiculous. More acceptable, albeit far more dangerous, would be to keep his dagger sheathed and use her own weapon against her—wrench it from her
grasp, and plunge it into her throat. Self-defense—an attempt to disarm her—nobody could call it his fault.

  All of this flashed across his mind in a fraction of a second.

  A sidling, deceptive advance. A few words to unbalance her; an insult or two, rousing her to blind rage; a lightning lunge, his immobilizing hand closing on her wrist. And then—

  Before he had moved, a voice broke in upon them.

  “Now, what is all this?” demanded Ojem Pridisso, in tones of reproachful disgust. “Have you two both lost your senses?”

  Beside Pridisso were all the members of the party, no doubt drawn from the fireside by the sounds of the altercation.

  “Magnifica Yvenza, what do you think you’re doing? This is no way to behave,” Pridisso admonished. “It’s downright unladylike. Come, put that knife away now.”

  Yvenza blinked as if awakening from sleep, and her face instantly rearranged itself into a look of troubled appeal. The dagger vanished as if by magic.

  “Ah, thank Fortune you’ve come!” she breathed.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “I feared for my life,” she explained tremulously. Her wide eyes flew to Aureste’s face. “This man—he was angry, he came at me like a tiger. We all know what he’s capable of, what he’s already done, and if you could have seen the look on his face—truly, I thought my last moments had come.”

  “Why didn’t you cry out?”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t make a sound. My throat had closed up. It was like some terrible dream. And then—oh, I hardly know what I did. I only know that I wanted to live.”

  The Magnifico Aureste was not the only one capable of swift calculation.

  They were looking at him, speculation and accusation plain in their eyes. Even Innesq appeared dubious. Aureste desired above all things to sink his blade to the hilt in the lying beldam’s heart, but took pains to conceal every trace of hatred. When he spoke, his air of mild deprecation was flawless.