“The murdered child, the gardener’s daughter. Do you know if the person responsible was ever caught?” Tevi’s thoughts were clearly running in a similar vein.
“No. I could try to find out.”
“Whoever it was has more to answer for than they know.”
“They weren’t really to blame for what happened in Kradja. They only murdered one child…” Jemeryl stopped and shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I guess, in their favour, they wouldn’t have tried pretending they were doing it for a noble cause, and right was on their side.”
“I know what you mean. Somehow it makes it worse that Ci and Ralieu were both wanting to make the world a better place. A few more good intentions and the entire world could have been at the slaughter.”
“They were just inanely naïve. I was thinking more about Sefriall.” Tevi’s face twisted in a frown. “I wish I’d got to talk to her. Did she see her actions as evil? Did she care? Had she convinced herself she was doing what her gods wanted?”
Jemeryl looked at her. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about her?”
“Softened a little. Seeing someone eaten alive can do that.”
“If she was walking around now, safe and well, would you still try to kill her?”
“I don’t know. The nomads, they’re decent people, and seeing what…” Tevi sighed. “I think I’ve gone off the idea of revenge a bit.”
“That’s good.”
“I’m not so sure. I may have gone off the whole idea of people. The citizens out there”—Tevi pointed at the window—“they seem all nice and sensible. One deranged sorcerer and they’d be a bloodthirsty, rampaging mob.”
“I think that’s…”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to work out why I didn’t want to help you hunt down Sefriall. I mean, Larric and Ashkinet were my friends too. And I was just as appalled by what happened to them. But…” Jemeryl chewed her lip, trying to get her thoughts in order. “Ci wasn’t even a very good sorcerer. If I get things wrong, I could do so much more harm than he did.”
“Is that a good reason to do nothing?”
Jemeryl drummed her fingers on the table. “It sounds like I’m abdicating all moral responsibility, but perhaps I should. I’m a sorcerer. It’s not fair I have so much more power than ordinary people, but that’s how it is, and I can’t pretend differently. So maybe I should just focus on practical problems, sort out what has to be sorted, here and now, and then let it go. If I get serious about morals, it could get out of hand. Striving for absolute ideals is a luxury I can’t afford, because I have to know when to stop.”
“You think the world is better when it’s ruled by unprincipled opportunists?”
“I think it’s safer. Maybe that’s why the Coven works so well. Rather than letting sorcerers try to create our vision of paradise, we’re too busy competing with each other to get a better seat in the refectory and rubbishing each other’s work and dealing with squabbles between guilds.”
“And patronising magpies with silver balls,” Klara added.
“And worrying about who’s taken up with an undesirable lover?” Tevi carefully repositioned her tankard on the table, which Jemeryl interpreted as displacement activity masking her concern. “Do you think Alendy will try to separate us again? You’re meeting with him tomorrow afternoon to discuss your plans for the future, aren’t you?”
“Yes. But I shouldn’t think he’d dare. The last thing he wants is more trouble, and if he tries to send me away from you, that’s exactly what he’ll get. Plus, after the way we’ve just hauled his arse out of the fire, I think I ought to be able to name my job.”
“Do you want to go back to Horzt?”
Jemeryl scrunched her nose. “I’m not bothered. A change of scenery would be nice, and Thaldo ought to be settled there by now.”
“With his silver balls.” Klara was not to be deflected from her complaints.
Jemeryl prodded the magpie with her forefinger, raising an indignant squawk, and then looked at Tevi. “Where would you like to go?”
“Somewhere where I don’t have to meet many people. Like I said, I’ve gone off them a bit at the moment.”
“There might be a village up on Whitfell Spur that needs a witch.”
“With just the occasional basilisk?”
“Or two.” Jemeryl smiled. “Do you really want to become a hermit?”
“No. But I’d like to spend a bit of time without seeing anyone die.”
Klara bobbed her head. “I’d have to question whether you’re in the right profession as a member of the guild of Mercenary Warriors.”
Tevi sank down in her chair, frowning. “Do you think you could get a post in Lyremouth?”
“I think I stand a very good chance. As I said, Alendy owes us a big favour.”
“Even if it meant having you and me here together under his nose?”
“He’s got people breathing down his neck over his handling of Ralieu. I can’t see we’re going to be a major priority for him.” Jemeryl looked at Tevi. “What would you do here?”
“I ought to be able to get work training new members at the guildhall. I’ve had enough of seeing people hurt. I’d like to spend a few years helping people stay unhurt.”
Jemeryl nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“But would you be happy here?”
Jemeryl again stared out at Lyremouth—or the small part of it on view—struck by the irony. When she had finished her apprenticeship and been sent far from Lyremouth, her sole ambition had been to return. The dream of advancing the study of magic while rising up the Coven hierarchy had been her only goal.
“You know, there was a time when if you’d asked me that, I’d have laughed.”
“Why?”
“Because back then, it was the only thing in life I wanted.”
“What changed?”
Jemeryl looked back and smiled. “I met you.”
Appendix
The Legend of Morfulaji and the Avatar of Yalaish
As told by the desert nomads around Kradja
Long, long ago, a spectre named Morfulaji escaped from the nightmare realms of chaos to unleash its carnage on the world. The undead fiend took the form of a monstrous bear, using dark magics to give itself the appearance of life. Such was the spectre’s power that it assailed even the god-home and for a while it seemed that the gods would be overthrown and chaos would claim all creation.
Only mighty Haith, god of hunters, was not dismayed. She pursued the bear across the planes of existence until at last she confronted Morfulaji. Long and ferocious was the battle. All heaven rang with the sound of the conflict. But Haith proved victorious. She slew the spectral bear and flayed its carcass. The hide she then presented to her mother, Yalaish, as a trophy.
But this offering gave Yalaish fresh reasons to be troubled. Although the threat from Morfulaji was over, Yalaish knew Morfulaji’s skin was possessed of great power. She feared it would be a cause of strife among her turbulent children were it kept in the god-home. So she secretly put it in the keeping of a human wise-woman called Ralieu. Yet even here it was not safe.
Of all her children, the triplet gods were always the greatest source of grief to their mother, the first to stir up trouble, the last to bow to her commands. Thus it was now. By devious means, Toqwani, god of destruction, found out where the skin of the spectral bear had been entrusted. The god descended to earth and took a human avatar. Calling himself Ciamon he infiltrated Ralieu’s household as a servant and when he saw the chance, he stole the magical skin.
Toqwani returned to the god-home and summoned his cyclian siblings. He showed them his prize and said, “See what I have. Join with me. With its power, we need no longer be subservient to our mother.”
The hermaphrodite Rashem would take no part in it. “Put this thing aside, brother, for I predict you will have little joy from such an evil source. While I share your d
esire for supremacy, nothing can be built on foundations of chaos.”
Koneath, though, was delighted and immediately joined her brother in rebellion. She also took a human avatar, assuming the name of Sefriall. Together, the two cyclian gods went to the town of Kradja and occupied the temple, claiming it solely for themselves. They cast out the priests of all other gods, and stripped their altars.
In the great hall of the temple, they constructed a golden idol and sealed the skin of the spectral bear inside. Great magic did they weave around the idol, infusing it with their godhead. Once their spells were complete, they harnessed the monstrous power of Morfulaji’s skin, casting a sphere of protection, a thousand miles across.
The idol’s power was such that, in the region it covered, none but Koneath and Toqwani could work magic. Healers could not cure sickness, sorcerers could not cast spells, seers could not foretell the future. The gods themselves were not immune. Not even their mother could assail them with her full power, while they were under Morfulaji’s protection.
The rebellious siblings drew on the skin still more. They summoned an army of red demons from the realms of chaos, and then finally they inflicted a madness on the people of Kradja, so that they would worship no god other than the cyclian triplets. All other holy places were usurped or desecrated.
Only we, the desert people, were immune to the madness. We held true to Yalaish and many of us fell in battle with the red demons, trying to defend the holy places. For the cyclian siblings were keen to show their contempt of their mother, and sites dedicated to her were savagely attacked. Most grievous of all, the first tear of Yalaish was overrun by the red demons and its sacred water poisoned. Bitter indeed was that day. A thousand generations will pass before we forget.
Yet in their action, the siblings showed a lack of wisdom. For in desecrating her sacred oasis, they alerted their mother to the mischief they were about, and once she saw what her children were doing, Yalaish would not let them continue unchecked. However, the power of Morfulaji’s skin was such that even the all-mother could not challenge her rebellious children directly. Guile was to be her first weapon, and in this, Yalaish was not lacking.
She also now took a human avatar and descended to earth. In the form of a common mercenary warrior, she made her way to Kradja, travelling unheralded and in secret. None knew who she was. Her presence on earth might have gone forever unrecognised were it not for a minor incident on the way.
One member of the party she travelled with was Siashe of Jeqwai’s kin. He had no idea that the female warrior was more than she seemed. Yet one night, when all others lay sleeping, Siashe awoke from a dream. In the moonlight he saw Yalaish walking through the campsite. One of the wagons was stopped with its wheel on her backpack. As Siashe watched in amazement, he saw the lone woman lift the wagon to retrieve a blanket. Ten men could not have picked up the wagon, and so near Morfulaji’s skin, no witch or sorcerer could have moved it by magic. Thus Siashe knew only the avatar of a god could have performed the feat.
We can but wonder why Yalaish revealed herself in this way. Had she truly been unaware she was observed? Did she want her devout followers to know she had not abandoned us in our need, and ever she would protect us? Or did she anticipate needing our support? Speculating on the motives of a god is at best foolish, but whatever Yalaish’s intentions, in this manner was the divine nature of her avatar revealed.
Once Yalaish arrived in Kradja, she set about gaining the ear of her defiant children. In this she was soon successful. Neither Koneath or Toqwani recognised their mother. Although they must have been on their guard, anticipating Yalaish to move against them, undoubtedly they were not looking for her to come alone and in such a humble guise. But for her part, Yalaish well knew the nature of her children, and how to charm them, mixing wisdom with flattery. Before long she was their most trusted adviser.
Yalaish plied them with honeyed words, saying, “Great is your power. All the world should bow before you. Yet you hold your hand. Why do you not demand the coven sorcerers of Lyremouth do you homage?”
In this, Yalaish was feigning innocence, for well she knew that Lyremouth lay beyond the reach of Morfulaji’s power. Her intent was to coax her children into overreaching themselves, appealing to their arrogance and pride.
“The sorcerers have great magic at their command,” Koneath said.
“They also have great arrogance and show you contempt. Why do you not punish them? Surely even the sorcerers cannot hold off the army of red demons at your command,” Yalaish said, knowing the demons from the realms of chaos were not dependent on Morfulaji’s skin for their power, and could lay siege to Lyremouth with hope of victory. Her words were thus a trap, luring the rebellious gods into attempting an assault on Lyremouth, and Toqwani took the bait.
With their army of red demons, the siblings set off across the desert, and Yalaish went with them. Meanwhile in Lyremouth, the sorcerers received the news with concern. However, the army never got as far as the shores of the Middle Seas.
As Yalaish had known, the demons were as formidable as before, even when beyond the reach of Morfulaji’s skin. But Koneath and Toqwani were now vulnerable and Yalaish was able to move directly against them. Toqwani, god of destruction, was the first to fall under the spell his mother laid on him. Toqwani’s fierce nature was inflamed, so he was overwhelmed by blood madness and the urge to tear down all around him. Unable to master his fury, he charged into the nearby town of Villenes, followed by the red demons, bringing death and ruin with him.
Many innocent people died at his hands and great was the devastation he wrought. Yet at his most harmful he was also at his most exposed. Relentlessly, Yalaish pursued him through the ruined town, and at last found him alone and undefended, with none of the red demons to aid him. Still Toqwani thought to defy his mother, for the avatar of a god may not easily be slain. But in her hand, Yalaish held a sanctified blade—a weapon had the power to destroy the god’s mortal form. This she thrust into the heart of Toqwani’s avatar, cutting through the bonds of magic that held his godhead on earth. The release of power was so intense that his mortal body was incinerated, crumpling into ash, and his divine spirit was carried back to the god-home on a shaft of light.
However, his sister, Koneath, did not succumb to the blood madness. Although she felt the lure, it was not in her nature to respond. The weakness of the god of builders lay elsewhere. Realising their mother had beguiled her and her brother and their downfall was at hand, she pulled herself back from the brink. So Koneath was able to flee back to Kradja, taking most of the army of demons with her.
Yalaish had thus dismissed one of her rebellious children from the mortal world, but her victory was not complete. Furthermore, she knew her daughter would not fall to the same trick again. Flattery and false counsel would no longer serve, but neither was a direct onslaught likely to succeed. Before an army got within a hundred miles of Kradja it would be spotted and engaged. No matter how formidable a force Yalaish raised, its chances would be slim against the red demons as long as Morfulaji’s skin limited her power.
A show of force was surely what Koneath would be expecting, and her scouts would be on the lookout for a large army. Thus, while Koneath’s eyes were focused on the horizon, a small band might avoid her gaze and pass into the heart of Kradja without drawing notice Yalaish set about gathering a band of heroes, few in numbers yet potent enough to destroy the idol containing Morfulaji’s skin.
The number of heroes Yalaish enlisted was three times three. First she went to Lyremouth and appealed to the leaders of the coven. The army of demons advancing on Lyremouth had dismayed them and they speedily agreed. Three of their best sorcerers, most skilled in the arcane arts, volunteered for the task. Secondly, Yalaish went to the priests. The devout Darjain was also quick to offer his support, and two other priests joined him in lending their wisdom and their piety to the cause.
Finally, Yalaish came to us, the desert people, her most faithful followers. Alth
ough she still appeared no more than a common warrior, from the testimony of Siashe, many suspected her true nature. Great was the honour of serving her and all who could yet stand and hold a weapon begged to be allowed to follow her. From our number, she selected three of our bravest warriors; Gaithon the quick, fleetest of foot; Waljed the strong, unbeaten in battle; and Lianthe the deft, whose arrows never missed their target.
Meanwhile, Koneath was desperate, anticipating her mother’s attack, and became ever crueler seeking out those she thought might oppose her. Yet she still envisioned that Yalaish would move against her in force, so she was not on her guard for the small band of heroes who slipped through her defences. With Yalaish to lead them, the band crossed the desert unseen. They stole through the streets of Kradja with none to note their passing. Finally they stood inside the great hall of the temple, within sight of the golden idol itself. And all this while, Koneath was blind to the threat, unaware that retribution for her disobedience was at hand.
Yalaish unleashed her band of heroes. Too late did Koneath realise her error. In panic she recalled her red demons from the outskirts of her land. They descended on the temple, flowing in like a river of evil. But Yalaish had chosen her heroes well. Such was their might and their skill and their wisdom that they withstood the horde of demons long enough for Yalaish to complete her task. The idol was cast down and destroyed, and once again Yalaish reclaimed the skin of the spectral bear. Now its power was hers.
At her command, the red demons faded and slid back to the realms of chaos. Alas, their numbers had been overwhelming and they had taken their toll on the band of heroes. On that day died Darjain and another priest and also two of the sorcerers. Also fell Gaithon, who would never again run across the desert sands, and Waljed, with his legendary strength. Never again would Lianthe loose arrows at her foes. Yet their names will live forever in our hearts, for with their sacrifice they erased our shame from the defilement of the first tear.
The High Priest and the Idol Page 34