Pareo didn’t answer directly. “I hope he knows what he’s doing. One mistake with spell-mummies, and who knows what mischief could be unleashed. I hope the spell-mummies aren’t beyond his talents to control.” He paused thoughtfully, then said, “I can’t understand how such an experienced magician as Duz Nimuar could engage such a fellow as Merinex as his Castle magician. Compromised or not, Nimuar must be aware of Merinex’s limitations.”
“He is somewhat . . . incapable of all that’s required of him, I suppose, but he does his work and he is given nothing beyond his talent to accomplish, as far as I’m aware. But Duz Nimuar, in spite of what was done to him, kept up a great deal of the routine household spells himself, so Merinex carries fewer obligations than most household magicians.” As Zhanf said it, he discovered he shared Pareo’s puzzlement.
“You spoke, Magsto, of possible enemies within the walls,” Pareo observed. “Someone like Merinex is ill-equipped to deal with them.” He tossed off the rest of his wine and got out of his chair. “This was most kind of you. I regret that I’m unable to remain longer, but I must leave.” He respected Zhanf lavishly and went to the door. “One day, we may meet again.”
“One day we may,” Zhanf agreed.
“I’ll look forward to it, and to meeting Duz Nimuar.” He flourished the long, tied sleeves of his gaihups and left Zhanf alone with his thoughts.
A short while later, Zhanf heard the Castle trumpeter play Farewell to the Guest a sure signal that Pareo was through the main gate and on his way down the long, curving road to Valdihovee. He continued to sit, sipping his wine and trying to discern what message, if any, Pareo had concealed in his last remarks. One thing was certain – Pareo was worried about the spell-mummies. This didn’t surprise Zhanf, for Pareo had been much distressed by the death of Hoftstan Ruch, and had remained uneasy since the seneschal was murdered. He couldn’t figure out why Pareo had made such a point of bringing up Heijot Merinex’s inadequacies, except that it helped to justify the dread that had driven Pareo to flee Vildecaz Castle. And while Zhanf was worried about possible enemies or allies of enemies within the Castle walls, he had found no evidence linking any of the household to Cazboarth. His ruminations continued until Neilach Drux appeared in the doorway.
“I think I may have found something,” he said as he respected Zhanf.
“What is it?” Zhanf rose and gave his attention to Drux, for he could see that Nimuar’s valet was agitated.
“Well, I was going through the Duz’s clothes-presses for the usual winter repairs, as is done every year at this time,” Drux began, making an effort to organize his thoughts. “I found something behind the clothes-press, up against the wall. I think you’d better have a look at it.”
“All right,” said Zhanf, motioning to Drux to take the lead.
“It could be nothing,” said Drux as he made for the main stairs. “But I doubt it, for it took an effort to conceal it.” He folded his hands as if to calm himself as he climbed to the second floor. “The clothes-presses are heavy and I only move them when they’re empty. Usually a maid cleans the underside and the floor and we manage with spells for the rest of the year.”
“A fairly common arrangement,” said Zhanf, continuing upward with Drux. “But you have the presses open just now, and you moved them?”
“Yes. That’s the way of it,” said Drux. “I want to be sure all his clothes are in good order for when he returns.”
“Commendable, I’m sure,” said Zhanf. “I have the feeling that what bothers you has little to do with the state of Nimuar’s clothes.”
This time Drux nodded. “You’ll see,” he said, stepping onto the third floor and continuing along toward Duz Nimuar’s dressing-room. “I think it would be advisable to look in the Duzeon’s dressing-rooms as well.”
This suggestion troubled Zhanf, who walked a little faster. “What is it that you’ve found?”
“I think . . . “ Drux cleared his throat as he opened the door to Duz Nimuar’s dressing-room. “I think it is an expulsion-spell, one that would drive the Duz out of Vildecaz.” He pointed to a small wooden jar on the floor behind where the largest clothes-press usually stood. “I recognized the invocations to Dandolmaz, the Capricious and Kylomotarch, the Forgetter on the lid. Those two can be a powerful combination for – ”
”Sending their subjects away,” Zhanf finished for him, in agreement, continuing to stare at the small wooden jar. Drux had been right about the invocations, and that prompted Zhanf to want to see the whole of the jar, to find out more about what kind of spells it contained, and how they were renewed. “Yes, this is most perturbing.” He pulled a vial of ympara-oil out of his sleeve, unstoppered it and dropped a little of the oil on the wooden jar. A faint, rotten odor rose from it, and a thin trail of smoke leaked out its seal. “Most worrying.” He turned to Drux, “Will you fetch me a plate of salt, please? If there is a silver plate you can use to carry it, so much the better.”
“I’ll bring the salt-cellar from the book room and one of the old silver platters hung there, if that will do,” said Drux, casting an anxious glance at the wooden jar, then looking directly at Zhanf. “Duz Nimuar keeps them to deal with unexpected spells found in some of his books, if you think they will do.”
“Most acceptable,” said Zhanf, and stood back while Drux hurried from the room. Alone, he made a few passes in the air above the wooden jar and heard a growling recitation come from it, the voice hard to comprehend in anything but the malicious talent that fueled it. This was concentrated malevolence, saturated with devastation and alienation, and focused on Duz Nimuar, for the one word that Zhanf could make out from the hissing voice was Nimuar, the name expressing such vicious intent that Zhanf was taken aback. It would require a Knot of Vitiation at least to stop the jar’s spell from continuing to do its work. He would begin the counter-spells to make the Knot before sundown. He took great care not to touch it, or allow his shadow to fall upon it, knowing that this could trigger more damage.
Drux came back with the salt-cellar and platter as well as a small volume of invocations for spells. “I know you’re a most learned Magsto, but I thought you might find this useful,” he said as he handed over the book.
“Thank you,” said Zhanf, taking all three objects.
“Because,” Drux went on, “it struck me that if the invocations match those in this book, it is likely someone in the Castle is responsible for that jar.” He indicated the seal on the book. “This is Duz Nimuar’s own compilation of spells, from . . . before he was blighted.”
“It’s cloaked as well as complex,” said Zhanf, lowering his head and crouching low, still taking care to keep his shadow from falling on the jar. He poured salt from the cellar onto the silver platter until there was a pale-grey sheet blocking out the silver’s sheen. “This is going to be difficult,” he remarked as he prepared to move the jar by spells onto the platter.
“May I help you?” Drux asked, doing his best to keep his distance from the sinister jar.
“Watch any smoke that may emerge from the seal. There may be something in it that will point the way to the one who cast the spell.” He took up the posture for counter-spells, then intoned the conjuration, the air crackling around him, and a faint glow coming from his fingers. After a third of an hour, the jar lifted from its place, its wood looking charred, and malodorous smoke coming from its surface. “It’s trying to destroy the invocation. Throw water on it!” Zhanf ordered Drux.
Drux took the ewer of water on the shaving-table and tossed all its contents on the jar, which landed in the wet salt on the silver platter.
Zhanf waited for a hundred heartbeats, then bent down and inspected the wooden jar. “It almost succeeded in catching fire.” Most of the invocation was blackened, but on the underside there was an emblem, one that Zhanf saw with repulsion.
“What is it?” Drux asked, shocked by the expression on Zhanf’s countenance.
“Despicable and dangerous,” Zhanf said solemnly. “Thi
s is the sign of the Night Priests of Ayon-Tur.” He stood up, determination replacing alarm. “Come. We have much to do and little time to do it.” With that, he picked up the platter and swept out the door, Drux following behind him, distressed by what he had just learned.
* * *
Shortly before dawn after the first night of the full moon, Ninianee – now a very small drugh-ox – managed to break free of the pen Doms had improvised for her. She rushed away through the brush toward the edge of the forest that loomed three leagues north of the River Dej. Doms followed her, and found her, two hours later, crouched naked in a thicket of juniper.
“Well,” he said as he held out a sajah to her. “That was interesting.”
She took the pleated cloak and pulled it around her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly as she got to her feet.
“The first night is always the most difficult,” said Doms reassuringly. “Tonight you’ll have better control.” He held out more garments. “Once you’re warm, put them on. I’ll hold the cloak to conceal you.”
“Why?” she asked with a short laugh. “You’ve seen me naked before.”
“That I have,” he agreed. “And it always causes me to long for you.”
To her surprise, this acknowledgment alarmed her. “I thought you . . . put such feelings aside.” She reached for the clothes, taking care to keep the front of the sajah closed as she did.
He offered her an awkward respect. “No, I said I’ll wait, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll deny my feelings.”
“I’m being so unfair to you,” she said as she turned away and tugged on her skin clothes, wriggling with her efforts.
“Let me hold the cloak, Ninianee,” he offered, plucking it from her shoulders and holding it half-around her. “Now, the brikes and then the zenft, and last the pelgar.”
“I’ll need slippers for a couple of hours.”
“I have them.” He held them out to her. “They’re a little large for you, I think, but your feet always hurt after you’ve had hooves, don’t they, and these slippers are lined with fleece.” He grinned at her. “I remember your trouble with hooves, from the wallow-moj.”
“You’d think paws would be worse, but they’re easier,” she said, her voice muffled as she drew the zenft over her head and tugged it down. The wind picked up, still cold from the snows on the peaks above them, and she shivered.
Doms held the sajah more closely around her. “I think we should find a barn for tonight. One with a stall that can hold you – the pen wasn’t sufficient.”
“I’ll be more aware,” she reminded him. “That will help.”
“So it will,” he agreed, loosening his grasp as she shrugged into her pelgar. “I’ll be glad not to have to be on guard against those horns.”
She turned toward him sharply. “Did I hurt you? I seem to think I did.”
“You tried, but I’m too fast for that.” He lowered the sajah and kissed her forehead where the horns had been.
“Oh, Doms, I’m so sorry.”
Her chagrin cut him to the quick. “You needn’t apologize, Ninianee, not to me, and never for your Change.” He wrapped his arms around her, the sajah still between them, and held her gently.
“But . . . “ She looked directly into his eyes. “I have to. Of all people, you’re the one to whom I should apologize.”
He released her, gathering up the sajah and holding out his hand to her. “Come on. We need to get moving. We’re getting under way later than we’d planned.” He led her to where he had left Womilaj tied to a tree. The pony whuffled at their approach and stamped his hoof. “Let me give you a leg up,” he offered, lacing his hands together and bending over.
She put her slippered foot in his hand and let him boost her up behind the saddle, although the assistance wasn’t necessary with the twelve-and-a-half-hand pony. As she settled behind the saddle with their cases around her, she said, “Will we make Vercaz-Old-Fortress by tonight, do you think?”
“Possibly,” he said, mounting the pony. “In any case, we should cross into Vildecaz before nightfall. You’ll be in your own Duzky, Duzeon.”
“All the more reason to be careful tonight,” she said emphatically, her attention full on the road ahead. “We don’t need rumors about my Changing spreading through Vildecaz.”
“Certainly not,” said Doms, studying the intermittent clouds above them. “We’ll have rain by the end of the day.”
“At least it isn’t snow,” she remarked, slipping her arms around his waist and taking comfort from his steady presence.
“We should reach Vildecaz Castle in three days if the rain doesn’t turn all the roads to mud.” He was silent for a dozen heartbeats. “A good time to return.”
“You mean after the third night of the full moon,” she said flatly.
“That, and four days before Last and First Day,” he reminded her. “Your birthday is First Day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“A fortuitous day.”
She leaned against him, her thoughts in confusion. “So I’ve been told,” she said quietly as the seal-brown pony broke into a smooth jog-trot, headed westward.
7. Realizations
“We’ll be in Otsinmohr by the day after tomorrow,” Kloveon said to Erianthee as they rode side by side at the head of their party under a leaden sky, the aftermath of three days of rain. Their progress was slow on the muddy road, yet neither he nor she wanted to hurry on, making the most of this time they had together. For the last several days, they had limited their conversation to pleasantries, but now that Erianthee was feeling more restored, they made tentative sallies into more serious matters.
“And then two or three days to the Hovanthroee Bridge, and at Vildecaz Castle the next day,” said Erianthee. “If the weather holds.” Although she still tired quickly and her appetite hadn’t fully returned, she had become impatient with her lassitude and decided to end it. She had only that day started riding the copper-dun rather than sitting in the wagon with Rygnee. “We should arrive a few days after First Day.”
“No doubt you’ll be glad to be home,” said Kloveon, regarding her carefully.
“I will be. I’ve missed Vildecaz. I’ve never been gone so long as I have this time, and for such a terrible reason. I imagine there’ll be a lot to do to catch up with being away so much longer than I intended. But I’ll be sad to give up so much time with you.” She stared at him directly. “I hope you’ll stay with me at Vildecaz for a while, so you can be thanked properly for providing me escort. I know you have to return to Fauthsku, but . . . “ Her voice trailed off.
“You’re not alone in having to tend to your holdings. I’ll need to find out what’s happened in Fauthsku before I do anything more,” he said somberly. “I left under . . . some difficulty.”
She thought of how troubled he had been when he came to her quarters at Tiumboj Castle, and she recalled the doubts the Emperor had about him. “You’ll need to return fairly quickly, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I may need to seek refuge if Riast still has reservations about what he suspects was my role in his son’s attempt at rebellion. I hope his magicians have disabused him of his fears in that regard.”
“Do you think that matters to him? The conjure-storm certainly turned the rebellion into a minor inconvenience, or so it seemed to me,” she said. “The time I spent in Tiumboj Castle after the storm, I heard very little about the rebellion, The Emperor was more worried about those behind the conjure-storm. I wasn’t the only one he was pressing for information on its origins.”
“I noticed that, too, about the rebellion – no one mentioned it, or spoke Bozidar’s name aloud, though it was apparent that many at Court had suspicions. As the Empire recovers, Riast may decide to connect the conjure-storm with the rebellion. Fauthsku is a wealthy province, one he’ll need to help pay for his rebuilding. He was already leaning in the direction of connecting the storm and the rebellion a week after the st
orm. Wasn’t that one of the things he thought your visions would show him?” He shook his head. “I was questioned several times, and each time they said the conjure-storm was the work of the rebellion.”
“You mentioned that to me,” said Erianthee, thinking back to many of their meetings.
“I mentioned some of it to you, not all. And since we left Tiumboj, I’ve begun to reckon the many doubts that are still in Riast’s mind. He has supposed that his son may not want to harm the Empire, but he may ally himself with those who do – the questioning I have endured suggested that. Riast accused me of wanting to spare Bozidar from any responsibility he may bear about the conjure-storm because I believe Riast’s son wouldn’t work against the Empire.” He coughed. “I may not be welcome in the Porzalk Empire for a while – until the origins of the conjure-storm are known.” He rubbed his face with his gloved hand. “I don’t want to be exiled on unfounded suspicions, but if I must stay away from Fauthsku, then I would like to choose the place.”
“You’re welcome to stay at Vildecaz for as long as you think necessary,” she said at once, knowing it was what he expected, and what she was hoping for.
“That’s generous of you,” he said with a hint of his usual gallantry. “I thank you, and I’ll accept your offer if it’s necessary, provided my being there won’t put you in danger.” He glanced back at the company behind them. “I wish I knew what became of our guide.”
“You said he was hurt in the fight,” she reminded him.
“Yes, he told me he had a cut to the leg. He said he’d catch up with us,” Kloveon told her. “But he’s still missing.”
“Perhaps his injuries have kept him abed. Cuts to the leg can take a long time to heal.” Erianthee blushed as she said this, thinking of her own swoon and her gradual recovery. “Perhaps, once we reach Vildecaz Castle, we should send a messenger back to The Blue Hound to see if there’s been any report on him, or if he has been there. I’ll also send a letter to the Priests of Dallan-Noj as well, in case they’ve taken him in. They’d be apt to do that.”
The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise Page 58