by David Drake
She picked up the wand and handed it to the cat man. “You’ll be needing this,” she said.
Turning, she went on, “Sharina, allow me to present your new wizard and advisor, Rasile of the True People. I think you’ll find her very satisfactory. And now, Cashel, you and I must go back immediately to the tomb where we spent last night.”
Tenoctris smiled in a funny way and said, “I have nothing further to do with the one who was interred there, but it’s a concentration of the power that will be useful for the next stage of our business.”
“YOU’VE COME, ILNA, YOU’VE come at last!” cried Merota. “Chalcus, look, Ilna’s here!”
Ilna opened her eyes. Her mind was blank. Merota threw herself into Ilna’s arms. “Oh, Ilna!” she said. “We’re all together again and I’m so happy!”
Merota was a warm, solid weight that squirmed against Ilna as she always did when they’d been apart for a longer time than usual. And though Ilna might’ve been imagining something she wanted as much as to be with her family again, the holly oak’s coarse bark against her shoulders felt completely real.
My family….
Ilna stood, holding the girl close. Chalcus was striding toward her, coming from the round temple that faced them across a pool.
“I never doubted you’d come, dear heart,” he called. “Though I don’t mind saying that the wait was the hardest thing I’ve known in a life that’s—”
Chalcus grinned with the hint of wolfishness under the pleasure that Ilna remembered so well.
“—had its share of hard things, and not all of them things that I did to others.”
Ilna ran to him, holding Merota’s hands, and they embraced. Chalcus’ hard muscles were as rippling and tender as they always had been. “It’s been a long time,” he whispered, but perhaps Ilna was hearing her own whisper instead.
When she blinked the tears out of her eyes, she stepped back slightly and looked around. She didn’t see any building save the temple, but smoke rose from hearths hidden in the trees beyond. There was a handful—more than a handful—of other people in sight. One was a shepherd on the nearby hilltop, watching the sheep on the slope below him.
The curb and the temple were well made but very simple. Both were built of yellowish-gray limestone, and the temple’s pillars weren’t fluted.
A halved log lay as a bridge across the brook in the near distance. On it knelt a small boy drawing with a stick of charcoal, while a woman in white robes kept her eye on him. She felt Ilna’s stare and looked up, then waved.
Ilna looked at Chalcus again, this time taking in the details instead of letting herself be swept away by a fierce tide of love. He wore a loose shirt of crimson silk, the sleeves pinned back by gold armlets; a brocade sash, silk again but dyed a fierce blue that made Ilna squint when her eye tried to follow the line where it met the shirt; and black leather breeches decorated with suede appliqués of dancing girls.
Ilna’d never seen any of the garments, but they added up to Chalcus in his dress finest. He’d been a sailor, after all, not a delicate aesthete from Valles—and most certainly not a prim girl from Barca’s Hamlet with a loathing for self-advertisement.
In that respect and many, Chalcus was the other half of Ilna os-Kenset; far more than half of her soul had died when the cat beasts killed him. And here he and Merota were, complete to every stitch and placket except—
“Chalcus, where’s your sword?” Ilna said, speaking quietly. There was nothing in her expression that might suggest to anyone watching that she was concerned. “And the dagger?”
“Oh, you dear silly heart!” the sailor said. He raised her hand and made as if to twirl her, but she stayed where she was and met his eyes with fixed determination.
“Dearest Ilna,” he said, “nobody’s taken them away from me, but the sword isn’t needed here. Come, I’ll show you. I hung them in the temple as an offering to the Youth. I’ll wear them if you’d like. Come!”
“You don’t need to prove to me that you’re telling the truth!” Ilna said. “Of course I believe you.”
“Oh, do come,” Merota said, tugging Ilna’s sleeve. “The statue’s lovely, you’ll see. And it’s real gold!”
Chalcus laughed and tousled the girl’s hair. “When you’ve had as much gold drip through your fingers as I have, child,” he said, “in taverns and mayhap less suitable places, then you’ll better understand how slight a thing it is. But yes, dear heart, let’s look at the statue, for it’s very beautiful.”
Ilna walked widdershins between them around the pool, Merota holding her left hand and Chalcus’ fingers lying warm on her waist. He said, “The Youth—the man himself, I mean—is buried in the mound where you came back. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s how you were able to join us without …”
He smiled apologetically and made a quick circle in the air with his right hand, spinning the rest of the thought away.
“You shouldn’t say ‘buried,’ Chalcus,” Merota said in a tone like a schoolmaster’s. “She’ll think the Youth is dead.”
She looked solemnly at Ilna and explained, “He isn’t, you see. He’s sleeping in the mound in a crystal case. He’ll arise when the time is ripe to lead all mankind into Paradise.”
“Aye, so you say, child,” said Chalcus. His tone wasn’t quite as dismissive as the words—but almost. “And you’re learned and I’m no more than a sailor, so I have no doubt you’re right. But—”
He paused and embraced Ilna again.
“—I can’t imagine another Paradise than being together again with the heart of my heart. As I am now.”
Ilna detached her hand from Merota’s to put both arms around Chalcus. She hugged him; she’d never thought she’d feel those rippling muscles again. Yes, Paradise indeed.
She stepped back. “Chalcus?” she said. “How did you come here?”
The sailor shrugged. “I’m not a priest, beloved,” he said. “There aren’t any priests here, though I don’t put any special meaning on that. We’re here because the Youth willed it, I suppose. Me and Merota and you, all three.”
They’d reached the entrance to the temple. The columns supported a thatched roof. The solid-walled enclosure behind the columns had a door of pale beechwood planks joined by a walnut Tree of Life overlay. Like the rest of the building, the carpentry was simple but of excellent craftsmanship.
Ilna smiled faintly. Much like one of her own fabrics, in fact.
Chalcus opened the door. The walls were a hand’s breadth short of meeting the conical roof but still higher than the eaves, so the only light was what came through the doorway. The statue in the middle of the small room nonetheless blazed, smooth and warm and comforting. It was of a nude young man, holding his hands out as though offering bounty to those who approached.
Hanging on twists of twine from a peg beside the door were Chalcus’ sword and dagger, as he’d never worn a sword belt that Ilna recalled. He took down the sword and slid the sharkskin scabbard through his sash; his fingers caressed the eared horn hilt.
“You shouldn’t draw it here, Chalcus,” said Merota in a tone of disapproval.
“Of course not, child,” he said reprovingly. He stepped out of the enclosure, then walked beyond the porch as well. Ilna stood in the doorway, watching.
“Looking back, I’d agree that I’ve drawn it many places that I ought not to’ve,” Chalcus said. “But I was never so ill-bred as to distress the Youth in His temple.”
As he spoke, the slim, incurved sword came out in his hand and danced a complex figure in the sunlight. He tossed it in the air, turned to face Ilna, and caught the hilt in his left hand. Smiling, he made another complex gesture and sheathed the sword before pulling it, scabbard and all, from under his sash.
“You see, love,” Chalcus said gently with the sword in the flat of his hand. “Nothing but courtesy prevents me from wearing this. Or from using it to slit the throats of any number of people, hundreds, I expect. I doubt there’s anyone in this place who co
uld so much as give me a fight, eh?”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Merota said.
Chalcus hugged her close. “I’ve done it, child,” he said. “I’ve done that and worse. But no, I wouldn’t do it again. The man I am now would rather die.”
He pecked Ilna on the cheek, then stepped past her to hang the sword back on the wall. “I haven’t wanted the blade since I came here,” he said, putting his arm around Ilna’s waist in the doorway. “And now that the heart of my heart has come back forever, I want it all the less.”
“Chalcus, I can’t stay here,” Ilna said. She felt as though she’d stepped into a pit filled with rose petals, lovely and sweet-scented and smothering her softly. “I’m not dead.”
“Indeed you are not, dearest one,” he said with a smile. “Nor do you ever need die, now that you’ve joined us again.”
“Until He leads us to Paradise,” Merota said, faintly disapproving as children can be when an elder doesn’t show the sense of propriety which the child thinks is warranted. She softened into her usual brightness and added, “But until then, yes. And we’ll still be together or it wouldn’t be Paradise!”
“But I can’t,” Ilna said. I’m sinking into roses…. “I have duties in the world. The other world.”
Chalcus laughed and kissed her. “To take revenge on the Coerli for killing me and Merota?” he said. “But we’re not dead, dearest. We’re here and you’re here. Whatever could be better than that?”
The child sketching on the bridge had gotten up; his mother brushed his tunic with her hands while he prattled to her. I wonder what looms they use here? Ilna thought. Even from this distance she could see that the mother’s white garment, too long and flowing to be called a tunic, was of a very delicate weave.
“Yes, Ilna,” Merota said, hugging her tightly about the waist. “You have to stay. Otherwise you won’t be happy.”
“That doesn’t matter!” Ilna said, her voice as sharp as if she’d just been slapped. She straightened, instinctively drawing away from the man and child. “That’s never mattered.”
“But it matters now, dear heart,” Chalcus said, touching her shoulder, his solemn eyes on her. “And nothing else matters.”
“Yes, Ilna,” Merota said. “You deserve to be happy with us.”
Ilna looked into the pool. Instead of showing a reflection of the tomb across from her, the water rippled with an image of the world where she’d fallen asleep. Temple and the two hunters stood on the mound with desperate expressions. Asion was calling with one hand cupped to his lips; the other held his dagger.
“Your happiness is all that matters,” Chalcus said.
Ilna jumped feet first toward the pool. She was fully clothed and didn’t know how to swim, though the water might not be deep enough to drown in.
“Ilna!” Merota cried.
Ilna landed on the plain, almost stepping into Temple’s fire. Three rabbits were grilling flesh-side down on a frame of green twigs. They’d already been on too long, forgotten in the men’s worry. Ilna snatched up the grate by two corners as the quickest way to remedy a problem she was responsible for.
“Mistress!” cried Karpos. He’d strung his bow and held it with an arrow nocked. “Where have you been?”
“I’m back now,” Ilna said harshly. “I have duties, you know.”
She touched her dry lips with her tongue. “Get out your digging tools,” she said. “There’s something in this mound.”
“WILL THESE QUARTERS be satisfactory, Rasile?” Sharina said, gesturing through the open door. She’d have preferred to say, “Mistress Rasile,” but there was no provision for that in the Coerli tongue. She could’ve said, “Female Rasile,” but the implications would be just as insulting to a Corl as they were to Sharina herself.
“If they were not,” said Rasile, looking past Sharina’s shoulder while a squad of Blood Eagles watched uncomfortably, “I suppose I could carry in muck to make the rooms more similar to the hut in which I live in the Place.”
She growled. Sharina’s new sense of the Coerli tongue couldn’t translate the sound but she did realize it was amused rather than threatening: the wizard was laughing.
“And perhaps,” Rasile added, “you could find me garbage to eat as well. That was good enough for an old female, you see. Had I not been a wizard—”
She gave a hunch to her narrow shoulders; a shrug in human terms as well.
Sharina’d asked that the bungalow nearest to hers be left empty. Many of the buildings in the palace compound had become run-down before Garric replaced Valence III, but this one had been in excellent shape—perhaps because it stood in a beech grove and the trees broke the force of storms that might otherwise have lifted roof tiles or torn off shutters.
Nobody’d argued with her request, though. She was, after all, Princess Sharina of Haft. If she wanted her privacy, she would have it.
She’d sent a messenger back to Valles ahead of them, directing the chamberlain to have the place cleaned. The lamp burning in a wall niche showed that had happened, but there hadn’t been time to clear the mustiness even with the door and windows open. Still, Rasile didn’t seem concerned as she walked in and looked around.
The servants preparing the bungalow had brought in a few pieces of furniture: a couch whose bolster was slightly too large, a pair of bronze-framed chairs, and a table which’d probably been retired to storage when the ivory inlays began lifting away from the wood. Sharina couldn’t complain given how short a time they’d had, but the part of her that was still an innkeeper’s daughter winced to see what she was offering a guest.
She made a quick decision. To the under-captain commanding her escort she said, “Stay outside, if you will. I have private business to transact with Rasile.”
“Your Highness, I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” said the Blood Eagle in an upper-class Cordin accent. She didn’t recall having seen the man before. He was relatively young to be an officer in a regiment chosen from veterans. “It’s not safe for a woman like you to be alone with a cat beast.”
Sharina’s mind went blank for an instant. Over the years, she’d had many men tell her what she must or couldn’t do because she was a woman. She’d never liked it, and tonight she was very tired.
She smiled. “You can’t allow it, you say?” she said. “Well, then you can sit in the corner and chat with the spirits of all the people you’ve killed in your life. You do realize that Rasile is a wizard, don’t you? Or instead of the spirits, maybe we’ll bring back the bodies.”
Sharina felt her smile widen, though the expression was no deeper than her lips. She said, “Have you ever talked to a man who’s been dead for six years, Under-Captain? I have. It’s not an experience I’d want to repeat, but if you really have to come inside with us while we perform an incantation …?”
The officer had begun backing away the instant Sharina said “wizard.” His troops were studiously looking in other directions, pretending not to hear the confrontation.
Sharina took a deep breath. She was trembling. She’d been cruel to the man, behavior which she disliked as much in herself as when she saw it in others, but—
She shut the door between her and the soldiers before she started to giggle. The look of horror on the under-captain’s face had been so funny! And he was a pompous twit. Though he doubtless had her best interests at heart, he was too stupid—too narrow, at least, which could be the same thing—for her to trust his discretion.
Sharina turned to face the room. Rasile was watching her intently. “So, Sharina,” she said. “You are a wizard too?”
“No,” Sharina said. She shrugged. “I suggested a possibility to make the guards leave us alone. I was confident that the under-captain wouldn’t call my bluff.”
Rather than take the couch or one of the chairs, Rasile squatted on the mosaic floor. It was laid in a garden pattern with caged birds at the corners. The Corl positioned herself carefully so that she appeared to be sitting under the pear tree in t
he center of the room.
She gave a growl of humor again and said, “I was wondering, you see. I could make that warrior see the faces of his victims, but to bring the actual bodies would be difficult. I would be impressed if you could do that, Sharina. And I think even your friend Tenoctris would be impressed.”
Sharina sat on one of the chairs; its bronze feet clicked against the stone. “Tenoctris said I should ask you about a…”
She gripped her lower lip with her teeth while she wondered how to phrase the request.
“A problem,” she decided at last. “A man named Vorsan, Prince Vorsan, watches me from mirrors. I’ve seen his face several times, generally only for a moment. He drew me in with him once, though. He says he’s a wizard, well, a scientist, from before the Great Flood. He wants me to join him in his world because the Last are going to destroy this one.”
Rasile’s pupils were vertical slits like those of a real cat; they made her fixed stare even more disquieting than it’d otherwise have been. “So, Sharina …,” she said. “How did you escape from this Vorsan?”
Sharina grimaced. “He didn’t try to hold me,” she admitted. “But I’m not comfortable knowing that at any time he could take me back with him. Can you drive him away?”
Rasile shrugged again. “Perhaps,” she said. “But tell me, Sharina—can you see into the future?”
“No, of course not!” Sharina said. “Why do you ask?”
“I cannot either,” the Corl said, “at least not clearly. But I believe you would be better off letting Vorsan be.”
“All right,” Sharina said. She felt a wash of regret, though she knew that Vorsan was at most an irritation. Perhaps she’d been focusing on him because so many of the greater problems facing her seemed completely intractable.
She stood. “Is there anything more you need?” she asked. “There should be food in the larder, but it may not be to your taste.”
She grinned and added, “For example, I’m pretty sure that the steward didn’t include garbage. If there’s a problem, tell a guard—there’ll be two of them outside—and he’ll find someone to correct the situation.”