The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I suppose you have no misgivings?” Nyon demanded.

  “Anyone would, but they don’t make a poltroon of me,” said Dantogorin. “It puts me on my mettle, not drives me into a squinch.”

  “I’m not in a squinch,” Nyon protested.

  Before the acrimony could get worse, Erianthee said, “If you’re truly distressed by this work, Nyon, you may leave. I will make no complaint, saying that you and I couldn’t agree on how best to set the Spirits of the Outer Air in motion beyond my forming them into visible performers. I won’t mention your dissatisfaction with your task.” That argument had lasted more than an hour, and had been witnessed by three servants – no doubt there would be gossip, but that couldn’t be helped. “You won’t have to answer for anything that happens.” She nodded to him, glancing toward the door. “Go. If you stay, I don’t want you hampered by qualms.”

  “Qualms!” He stared at Erianthee for a long moment, then glared at Dantogorin. “Say what you will – you’re a fool to remain here.” With that, he stumped out of the room, his head lowered belligerently.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Dantogorin advised as the door slammed behind him.

  “He’s never been one to extend himself if there is no clear benefit to him. He’s not one to take chances.”

  “Then why has he advanced so far? The Emperor made it plain that he wanted Nyon included on this project. Why should he do that if he knows Nyon is unreliable?” Erianthee asked.

  “Oh, he’s reliable enough – you may trust his vanity and ambition absolutely.” She shook her head. “A pity, really. He isn’t without ability. He has a modicum of talent.”

  Erianthee managed not to sigh. “Listening to his proposals, he seemed well-educated, but he fusses over minutiae rather than address the goals of the work proposed.”

  “He is very well-educated as far as reading and research go, and he is the third son of the Emperor’s present father-in-law. Unless he is a blithering incompetent, he can be assured of his place here at Court. The Empress is his sister, so he was put on the Council. He says he wants to make himself useful, but most of his skill is from study, not practice. I doubt Riast would have wanted him there otherwise, for the very timorousness you have witnessed.” She came up to Erianthee. “You and I will manage it, Duzeon. I know you’re worried, but your talent is strong and you have honed it through much use.”

  “You’re most kind to tell me this, Dantogorin. I will commend you to Riast, if this goes as we hope.”

  “Thank you, but I doubt it will be necessary.” She lifted her hands in the gesture that signified the preparation for a magical occurrence. “Let’s clear the room of any wayward elements, and then set up your screen.” Her smile was wide and confident. “Routine always calms me.”

  “A good notion,” said Erianthee, and took her vial of ympara-oil out of her sleeve and opened the stopper. “You have salt?”

  “Mixed with gold dust, for extra power,” said Dantogorin, preparing to start the clearing rite. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this afternoon – that may be necessary for you to enter a deeper trance than the light one you have for your Shadowshows.”

  “I think you’re right. Whenever a prophetic Shadowshow has come about, I have been drawn into a much deeper trance state – that may be why the Spirits of the Outer Air are able to gain control of the Shadowshow.” Erianthee put a drop of ympara-oil at the door, then on the performance platform. She stood still, trying to decide if she ought to anoint the chairs as well, but decided that some of the advisors would be offended.

  “I’ll help you with the screen in a moment,” said Dantogorin as she set another tiny saucer of salt-and-gold-dust in the last of the niches to the Six Founder Gods and Goddesses. “There. We have as much protection as we can hope for.” She came back to the performance platform, stepping up onto it. “Where is the screen?”

  The windows rattled as the wind shook them, as if trying to get in.

  “Over there. In the musicians’ alcove.” She pointed, adding, “There should be a sling-chair for me, as well.” After a heartbeat, she said, “Have you thought about the other thing we discussed?”

  “That this command from Riast may be part of a diversionary tactic – is that what you mean?” Dantogorin asked. “I have, and it seems unlikely to me. Keeping the Emperor preoccupied with problems of prophesy wouldn’t blind him to the approach of a host of enemies. Nothing of the sort has been reported, so I doubt there’s anything to worry about in that regard.”

  “There are many ways for an enemy to attack,” said Erianthee as she went to fetch the sling chair. “If you’ll bring the screen?”

  A sudden gust of wind made the Music Room thrum, and Dantogorin looked around at the walls. “The wind is certainly rising.”

  Somewhere in another part of Tiumboj Castle came the muffled sound of breaking glass and shouts, followed almost at once by the alarm-gong sounding, and the louder howling of the wind. As soldiers ran from their precarious posts, the gathering storm whooped, battering the Castle more fiercely.

  “The wind is getting worse,” said Erianthee, placing the sling-chair at the center-rear of the platform. “The screen should be about an arms-length in front of me. The light should be on the front of the platform. Not too bright at first, but sufficient to see clearly.”

  “I’ll attend to it.”

  Another bludgeon of wind boomed through the Castle. This time there was a loud crash and an alarm from another part of the vast building. Almost at once the moaning crack of falling trees reached the Music Room, and then the sound of more glass breaking.

  Both Erianthee and Dantogorin were still, listening to the increasing frenzy of the wind. Although the windows were closed and latched, the tapestries in front of them began to sway and billow, and then two of the south-facing windows burst inward and the tapestries flapped and sailed.

  “Dandolmaz, the Capricious!” Erianthee yelled as the full brunt of the wind thrashed through the room, pulling the tapestries from their hanging-rods and knocking the screen over with a loud clatter.

  Dantogorin shouted something to Erianthee that was lost in the berserker wail of the rising wind. She managed to stagger toward Erianthee, repeating her shout. “It’s a conjure-storm!”

  “It can’t be!” Erianthee cried in shock. She had heard of such storms, but knew they required many, many magicians of great talent to pull the air of the Great World into a storm and keep it moving. Conjure-storms rarely lasted long, but their potential for destruction was the stuff of legends.

  “What should we do?” Dantogorin screamed, panic raising her voice.

  Before Erianthee could answer, the door burst open and three Imperial Guards and their officer hastened in with the clear purpose of helping them. Even these large, well-armed soldiers were almost thwarted in their efforts by the wind, but they redoubled their efforts to reach the two women. They leaned into the wind, staying near the walls, using them as shelter. They struggled toward the two women who where now huddled together. “We’ve come – We’ll get you – “ the leader called, but couldn’t be heard.

  More windows broke, and the floor became treacherous with shards of glass, some of which were being caught up in the storm, whirling about the room, ready to slice into anything they touched. The drapes over the chairs broke their ties and flailed around the room like angry ghosts. A few of the smaller chairs fell over and slid with the blast.

  “Duzeon! Magstee! Come with us!” the leader of the Imperial Guards bellowed. “We’ll get you to safety. Come toward us!””

  Erianthee tugged on Dantogorin’s arm and the two made their way slowly toward the Guards. They walked with care, their heads lowered and bodies bent against the rising blast, and occasionally had to pull off a drape or curtain that had wound around them by the force of the wind. The soldiers held out their pikes to the women, and as soon as the women had grasped the pikes, their leader shouted for a retreat. The Guards began to back up, keepin
g their heads down to avoid flying bits of glass and the drapes. As soon as they were clear of the doors, the men scrambled to secure the handles with the staves of their pikes.

  The corridor wasn’t much better, for the wind romped and howled through its marble confines, blowing out the hanging lamps and leaving them in the gusting darkness.

  “We must go to the Vault of Meilianoz. It’s the safest and strongest part of the Castle; those of the Court who can get there will be protected,” the leader of the Imperial Guards announced, his voice still raised so he could be heard. “I have a conjure-light.” He lifted a glowing globe high enough to shed enough light to get them down the corridor. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Erianthee hurried along beside him, her head down, her honey-blonde hair in furious tangles, her coronet gone. “The wind is out of the south?”

  “Yes,” the Guard leader growled. “South-southeast.”

  “Only summer storms come from that quarter,” she said loudly as she started to jog to keep up with him. There were a pair of cuts on her face now.

  The noise was increasing, filled with more uproar from broken windows and ruined doors.

  “That’s right, Duzeon. Winter storms come from the north. As you well know.” He lifted the globe containing his conjure-light a bit higher, so that its pool of brightness revealed a good ten paces ahead. “This is going to be bad.”

  “I’d say it already is,” Erianthee remarked, then looked back to be sure Dantogorin was behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “I can make it to the Vault, but then I will need – “ She stopped as the Music Room door burst open, splintering the pikes and sending the broken bits tearing toward them.

  “Down!” the Guard leader screamed, shoving Erianthee to the floor and falling on top of her while ruined pikes and a squadron of drapes flew overhead. As the wind clawed at the corridor and the wooden splinters imbedded themselves in the floor, the Guard ordered his men to protect Dantogorin and to make for the stairs. Then he straddled Erianthee and began to crawl toward the opening of the staircase that led down into the ancient heart of Tiumboj Castle, while Erianthee pulled herself along, arm over arm, hoping to reach their goal without any mayhem beyond what the wind had inflicted.

  They were almost to the stairs when a groaning rumble sounded beneath the screeching of the wind. An instant later there was a crash overhead and the ceiling cracked under the weight of whatever had fallen on it.

  “The turret!” one of the Guards shouted. “We have to move!”

  “Now!” ordered the leader, and pulled Erianthee with him as he made for the stairs as fast as he could. His knees and hand had started to bleed, leaving red streaks amid the splinters, glass, cloth, and other debris the wind continued to stir, but his conjure-light remained lit, marking the way to the old stone arch and the descending curl of the stairs.

  Once they reached the opening that led downward, the leader shoved Erianthee down the first few steps, then reached to pull in Dantogorin and, after her, his men, taking a heartbeat or two to be sure no one was seriously hurt. They huddled on the broadest step to prepare for their next efforts. The staircase was still windy, but not as tempestuous as the corridor behind them, and they clambered up the collapsed stones of the wall in order to climb down the stairs. Erianthee saw that she, too, left smears of blood where she touched the wall – more than her face had been cut. She stopped her descent to wipe her hands on her gaunel.

  “It’s a long way,” the leader of the Imperial Guard warned them all. “Be careful. There are trip-stairs along the way. I’ll go first and point them out.”

  Erianthee gestured her approval. The last thing she wanted was for any of them to fall, and the uneven height of trip-stairs were designed for that purpose. She wished there was a proper railing to hang onto, but contented herself with keeping her hand and shoulder pressed to the ancient stones as they went down into the depths of the wind-besieged Castle.

  * * *

  “There are drouches following us – a pack of ten or so,” Ninianee called to Doms Guyon as the made their way across the high plateau between Cazboarth and Mindicaz. They had been making good progress in spite of the snow, which was getting deeper with each passing storm. On the road itself, marked by cairns every hundred paces, the spells of the Mindicazin weather-witches kept the way fairly clear, but drifts around them were occasionally as high as Ninianee was tall, concealing everything around them in brilliant white.

  “Are you certain?” Doms responded.

  “Of course I am,” she snapped back. “I can feel them.” She had picked up their presence a short while ago – relentless hunger, the tracks of ponies and mules, the hope of finding a meal. Then came the impressions of rending and tearing, gouts of blood, and hot meat in the jaws.

  “Are you sure they’re following us?” He paused. “I’m sorry, Ninianee. I don’t doubt you. But I don’t understand how much you can learn through your contact with animals.”

  “It is probably not unlike how you follow someone. You reach a crossroad and you know which turning to take. I feel their . . . focus. I can sense what they experience, but it’s all without words, which makes description difficult.” She tugged at the lead-rope, as if willing Danliree to stay close to her. “The drouches may trail us for days.”

  “That isn’t comforting,” said Doms, sloughing around in the saddle to look at her.“No. It’s not,” said Ninianee. She looked up at the sky. “And there’s hard weather coming in fast. From the south.” This last was said with a degree of malaise as she pointed at the darkness along the southern horizon.

  “The south? In winter?” Doms pulled in Womilaj and stood in the stirrups to get a better look at what lay around them. Then he squinted up at the sky. “You’re right. The clouds are moving in from south-by-east.”

  “Unusual,” said Ninianee, doing her best not to sound anxious.

  “There’s lightning in those clouds, given the shape of them,” said Doms.

  “That’s a bad sign,” said Ninianee.

  “It is,” Doms agreed. “I believe it may be best to find a safe place to ride out the storm.”

  “I don’t see anything that looks like shelter. You said that inns are rare on this road,” said Ninianee, aware of the drouches, now less than an hour behind them. The certainty of their speed and appetite made her increasingly jittery, and although she did her best to conceal this, she was at once comforted and vexed to realize Doms was aware of her state of mind.

  “They are. Which is why there are travelers’ huts along this route.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “We won’t have to sleep in the open tonight. We’ll be safe from drouches and weather.”

  She kept from looking back, knowing she wouldn’t see the drouches yet. “I do hope so.”

  Doms sank back onto his saddle. “How long until the storm hits, do you reckon?”

  “An ordinary storm, perhaps four hours. This one, I can’t say, but I assume it will be faster.” Ninianee saw him frown as he gathered his reins.

  “Then we had best hurry. Can your pony and mule sustain a trot?”

  “As long as yours can,” she said with asperity.

  He thought a moment. “I’m trying to remember – I believe there is a travelers’ hut ahead. We should be able to reach it in half an hour if we go at the trot.” As if to put this to the test, he clapped his heels to the sides of his seal-brown pony, and gave his mule’s lead a sharp tug. The two animals lurched into a trot.

  Ninianee did the same, aware that Jenshaz had been a bit off his feed the night before. Now, as the pony shambled into a trot, she read his thoughts. Cold and more cold. Ice instead of water. She felt his longing for nuts and raisins and his aching joints, as well as his steadiness. She resolved to use some of the oil she carried to enrich his food and to lessen his discomfort. “Half an hour,” she said to him. “Just half an hour, old boy.”

  The pony continued his trot, the mule following more co-operatively than usual. Steam rose fr
om their nostrils and coats into the high, clear, frigid breezes. The trail was slushy with patches of frozen mud, which slowed them down, so that it was somewhat more than half an hour later that they came upon the travelers’ hut, a short distance off the road, fronted by a high drift of snow.

  “We’ll have to get in through the byre,” said Doms as he slowed his animals. “You wouldn’t object to tending to the horses and mules first, would you?”

  “Of course not,” Ninianee answered. “I don’t want to leave them standing with all their tack and load on.”

  “Then come on,” he said, and turned his pony into the high snow, urging him forward with kisses and heel-taps. The mule tried to balk but was held firmly as Womilaj wallowed forward, his legs lifting and extending to get over the drifts to the travelers’ hut. The mule lagged at the end of the lead-rope, ears half-back and shoulders stiff.

  Not to be outdone, Ninianee urged Jenshaz and Danliree into the churned snow, filling their heads with images of food and shelter as she tisked to them, encouraging them to keep moving. She saw Doms draw up at the side of the hut, inspecting the building and the small paddock with only the top of the fence-rails showing at the back of the open stalls attached to the eastern wall of the hut. “I think we can get them inside shortly. There are doors and we can secure them – keep the drouches at bay, if we have to.” He dismounted and sank to his thighs in the snow.

  Ninianee knew she shouldn’t laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. “Not easy to get them inside, is it?”

  “You’ll have the same problem,” said Doms, unperturbed as he went slogged forward, the pony’s reins in one hand, the mule’s lead in the other.

  “I’ll stay mounted, if you don’t mind,” she called to him.

  He laughed as he waded on toward the hut. “Let’s hope there’s firewood inside. I don’t relish having to look for some with drouches about.”