"Can you contact him?" Rudy asked curiously. "If he's a wizard, he might have some word about the wizards at Quo."
"Oh, Kta wasn't a wizard. He was—I don't know what he was, really. Just a little old man. But no, it would be impossible for me or anyone to contact him. He would be found, if he wanted to be found, and if not…" Ingold spread his hands, showing them empty. "I haven't seen him in a good fifteen years."
They walked on in silence for a time, Rudy's thoughts chasing one another randomly, his eyes picking out tiny tracks in the sand, patterns of wind, and the shapes and natures of plants that flickered dry and yellow against the empty sky. He was trying to picture Ingold as a young man, trying to picture any situation in which the wizard would be in desperate need of help, trying to envision someone capable of giving the old man what he could not find for himself.
The road mounted a small rise, coming out of its sunken bed to crest a barren ridge above yet another flat of salt-bush and stone. The veer of the wind whipped Rudy's long hair into his eyes. For a moment he wasn't sure if he saw or only imagined the distant glitter of something far out in the flatlands. Even when he paused to shade his eyes, he wasn't sure what it was—only that vultures circled over k, high in the wan air.
"What is it?" he asked softly as Ingold came back to stand beside him.
The old man didn't reply for a time. He stood, his eyes narrowed against the distance, showing no visible reaction. But Rudy could sense a tautness that grew in him, as if in readiness for a surprise attack.
"White Raiders," Ingold said at last.
Rudy turned his eyes from the gruesome remains of the Raiders' sacrifice. It was nearly a week old. What the vultures and jackals hadn't gotten, ants had. But it was still fresh enough to be revolting. He concentrated instead on the cross that had been erected beyond the head of the stretched victim; it was seven feet tall and wreathed in complicated streamers of feather, polished bone, and glass. The cross itself was wood, rare in this treeless land, with a skull nailed in the join of the beams. The tufts of feathers and knotted grass twirled skittishly in the wind, reminding him weirdly of the candy skulls with roses in their eyes of the Fiesta de los Muertos.
"It's a magic-post." Ingold walked around it, cat-footed, leaving barely a trace of tracks on the dry crumble of the turned-up earth. His fingers caressed lightly the smoothed wood, as if to read something there by his touch, then brushed the dangling glass. "That's odd." He said it half to himself, like a man who found in his garden flowers not of his own planting. Rudy shivered and scanned the horizon, as if expecting to see the Raiders materialize like Apache from the pale wastelands of sand and thorn.
"Did the Raiders make it?"
"Oh, yes." Ingold went over to the remains of the sacrifice, hunkering down to examine the loathsome bones. Rudy looked away. 'The Raiders will make a sacrifice in propitiation of something that they fear—you saw that in the valleys below Renweth—and usually, but not always, put up a magic-post to hold the soul of the tormented dead." He straightened up, frowning. "Generally they will make the propitiation against the ice storms, which they consider to be evil ghosts; lately they have begun to do so against the Dark. But this…" He came back to the cross, like a ghost himself in the pallor of the shadowless afternoon. "This I have not seen." He moved a little way off, poking with his staff at the hard, cracked clay of the ground, the knobby yellow twigs of the catclaw snagging at his mantle and the blown dust blurring his tracks. "They fear something, Rudy, and fear it enough to sacrifice one of their own band to divert its rage. But it wouldn't be an ice storm this far to the south—and it isn't the Dark."
"How can you tell?" Rudy asked curiously.
"I can tell by the pattern of the streamers and the marks scratched in the wood. This isn't the regular hunting ground of any tribe of Raiders that I know—they do not range the desert at all, but stick to the plains, following the bison and mammoth. Only the extreme bitterness of the winter and perhaps the coming of the Dark have driven them here." He came back and collected Che's lead-rope again, for all the world like a ragged old prospector hunting for the motherlode among the cactus and ocotillo. "We shall have to be careful and cover our tracks," he went on, turning back toward the road. "The Raiders prize steel weaponry and would in all probability cut our throats to steal our swords."
"Great," Rudy said fatalistically. "One more thing for us to worry about."
"Two," Ingold corrected him. "The Raiders—and whatever it is that the Raiders fear."
But in the two empty days that followed, they saw no sign of White Raiders. Toward afternoon of the second, Rudy thought he could discern a dust-cloud and movement on the road ahead and he suggested concealment.
"Nonsense," Ingold said. "Any Raider who raised dust higher than his own knees would be expelled from the band and left for the jackals."
"Oh." Rudy shaded his eyes and gazed into the clear grayish distance. "That's a hell of a dust for just one family, though."
As they drew nearer, Rudy saw that this was indeed far more than a single family, or even several families. An entire town was on the move, as the refugees from Karst and Gae and the ragged survivors of Penambra had moved. A long line of swaying wagons was surrounded by a skirmishing ring of riders and a broad scattering of scouts afoot. The creak of leather and the barking of dogs sounded weirdly unfamiliar to Rudy's ears. He had not been aware of how used he had grown to the silence of the desert. At the head of the wagon train, a cloaked woman walked afoot, and it was she who hurried her steps to meet them as the mounted scouts drew in from both sides. Something in the arrangement of the band reminded Rudy of the way Ingold had said the dooic traveled, and he smiled to himself at the thought.
The woman threw back the hood of her cloak as she came toward them, revealing a long, plain face that had been just short of homely before it had acquired whip-cut scars from the tails of the Dark and the blotched burn of acid. Her warriors fell in behind her, grim, dusty men and women in sheepskin jackets with seven-foot longbows in their hands. The woman herself carried a halberd, which she seemed to use as a walking stick, its enormous blade glittering in the pale daylight.
"Welcome," she called out to them as she came near.
"And well met on the road, pilgrims." Close up, Rudy could see she was about five years older than he was, with a long, straight mare's-tail of black hair and the hazel eyes so often found in Gettlesand. "Where have you come from, that you're moving west? Are you from the Realm?" Hope, eagerness, and anxiety struggled in her face and in the faces of those behind her.
Ingold held out his hand to her and inclined his head in mingled greeting and respect. "We have come out of the Realm," he replied. "But I fear we bear ill news, my lady. Gae has fallen. King Eldor is dead."
The woman was silent, the hope stricken from her eyes. Around her, the warriors, men and women, exchanged quiet glances. Back in the train, a baby cried, and a woman shushed it.
"Fallen," she said after a moment. "How fallen?"
"The city is a ruin," Ingold said quietly. "It is the haunt of the Dark by night, of ghouls and beasts and slave dooic gone feral by daylight. The Palace burned, and King Eldor perished in its ashes. I am sorry," he said gently, "to be the bearer of such news."
She looked down, and Rudy saw her big, rawboned hands tighten on the shaft of the halberd, as if to steady herself, or to cling to it for support. She looked up, and her eyes were sick with weariness. "Have you come from Gae, then?" she asked. "Because if you're bound for Dele in the west, if you'd hoped to find refuge there…" She gestured behind her at the train, which was slowly coalescing around the strangers in the road. "About two-thirds of these people are from Dele. The rest are from Ippit, or the country around the Flat River. I'm Kara of Ippit. I was— am—spellweaver of the village."
Ingold looked up at her sharply. "You're a spellweaver?"
She nodded. "The priest always understood. And I've been able to help, with what powers I have…"
"Are
you ranked?"
"No. I had to leave Quo after my first year there because my mother was ill." Then she looked down at him with sudden eagerness, realizing what his question had meant. "Are you a spellweaver?"
"Yes. Is your mother?"
She nodded, and Rudy saw the quickening of new life from the dead exhaustion of her face. "Have you had any word, heard anything at all, from Quo?" she demanded. I've been trying so hard, trying for weeks, but I can't even get sight of the town. You're the first wizard I've seen since any of this began." She reached out to clasp his hand. "You don't know how good it is…"
"I know very well," he contradicted with a smile. "I haven't had word or sign from Quo or news of any other wizard but yourself since Gae fell. We're bound for Quo now, to find Lohiro and ask his help."
A faint stain of color flushed up under the burnt brown of her skin. "Well," she said, "I'm afraid your calling me a wizard is like calling that little burro of yours a battle-charger. In the same family, maybe, but different in kind." She looked at his face again, the black line of her brow kinking suddenly, as if she sought some lost memory.
He smiled again. "The colt of a battle-charger, perhaps," he said. "Where were you and your people bound for, Kara?"
She sighed and shook her head. "Gae," she said simply. "Or the river valleys, anyway. We left Ippit for Dele, which was the nearest city. We couldn't hold out in Ippit —too many buildings had been destroyed, and the raiding of the Dark was too heavy. Three days out of Dele, we met a great train of people fleeing that town, most of them half-frozen and starving. We shared what food we had… We've been on the road for three weeks. We thought if we could reach the river valleys…" Her voice trailed off hopelessly.
The valleys are alive with the Dark. They're far thicker there than on the plains. King Elder's son Altir has been taken to the old Keep of Dare in Renweth at Sarda Pass, where Chancellor Alwir has set up the government of what Is left of the Realm. But they are hard-pressed, too," Ingold went on, passing over the scene that Rudy and he had both glimpsed in the fire, the sight of Alwir and his troops turning aside the refugees of Penambra.
Kara nodded despairingly. "I feared that," she whispered. "Have you heard of anywhere, anywhere at all… ?"
"Possibly. Tomec Tirkenson, the landchief of Gettlesand, has rebuilt the old Keep at Black Rock. I don't know how crowded they are there or how well supplied, but it may be, if you went there and threw yourselves on his mercy, he could give some of you a home."
Kara glanced over her shoulder at the scruffy band of rangers at her back, and it seemed to Rudy that, without a word spoken, a motion was moved, passed, seconded, and voted—a swift council of desperation that had nowhere else to go. Her eyes returned to Ingold. "Thank you," she said quietly. "We will go there, and if he turns us away, at least it's better than remaining in Ippit to die." She straightened her broad shoulders and shook back her straight, heavy hair.
"Tirkenson has a bad reputation with the Church," Ingold told her. "But he is a man of what mercy he can afford as Lord of Gettlesand and he knows the value of having a wizard in his Keep. Is your mother with you also?"
Kara nodded.
"And did she go to the school at Quo in her time?"
A rare glimmer of humor flashed behind those greenish eyes. "And mix with all that highfalutin booklarnin'? Not her."
Ingold smiled, and the swift, sudden warmth of his expression captivated her completely. She continued to study him as if trying to place him. Her eyes changed from puzzlement to surprise and then to awe. She whispered, "You're Ingold Inglorion."
He sighed. "That is my unfortunate fate."
She was instantly covered in gawky confusion, like Gil when told that she'd done something right. "I'm sorry, sir," she stammered. "I didn't realize…"
"Please," Ingold begged her. "You're making me feel horribly old." He reached out and took her hands. "One thing more, Kara. There's a band of White Raiders somewhere in the area—I think a hunting band some thirty strong. We came upon a magic-post two days ago. I'd suggest you double your guard and widen your point-men. The Raiders are afraid. They may want one of your people for another sacrifice and they're certainly going to want your sheep."
One of the men in the group behind Kara asked worriedly, "Afraid? What do they fear? The Dark?" At the name of the Raiders, a whisper had passed through the train, like the smell of a wolf through a herd of cattle.
Well, Rudy thought, they're desert dwellers. Maybe some of them have seen the leftovers from the Raiders' propitiations of the local spooks.
"Possibly," Ingold said. "But the magic-post we found wasn't raised against the Dark. I have no idea what it is that they fear, but I do know that they fear it."
Kara frowned thoughtfully. "It's the wrong time of the year for fires," she said. "And it wouldn't be ice storms this far south. Unless they're a deep-north band with no idea how far south they've come…"
"I should hesitate to believe that a band of Raiders, under any circumstances, has no idea where it is," Ingold said. "But I've seen the propitiations for all of those. It isn't any of them. Have you heard any rumor, any story, any hint of tracks or signs of anything else abroad in the lands?"
A bearded farmer with a longbow grinned. "That would scare the Raiders? Maybe a million stampeding mammoth followed up by a flock of horrible birds, or a sun-cat with a thorn in its paw…"
Ingold shook his head and returned the grin. "No— they don't make magic-posts against anything they can kill."
"Disease?" the woman suggested doubtfully. He hesitated. "Maybe. But the Raiders have a rather simple way of dealing with disease."
"Well," she admitted. "But in a big epidemic you can't leave everybody behind."
"I seen 'em dump as many as twenty out of a band, ma'am, and that's a fact," the farmer said, scratching his head. "And there has been a lot of sickness and famine this winter, what with this consarn weather."
"Maybe," Ingold said again. "But on the whole, the Raiders regard disease as an internal weakness of the will, rather than as an incursion from the outside. The Raiders don't see things the way we do. Sometimes they fear some very odd things. But in any case, there is something out there; and against it—and against all other ills of the road —may you be safe, Kara of Ippit, and those who walk in your shadow." Reaching out, he made a swift sign above her head. "A good outcome to your journeyings."
She smiled shyly and repeated his sign. "And to yours— sir."
With this they parted, Rudy and Ingold continuing on their road, Kara and her village on theirs. The dust of the train swamped the two pilgrims, and they found themselves for a time surrounded in a white fog, moving among the crowding shapes of wagons, weaving among women, children, chickens, and goats. Craftsmen passed them with barrows full of tools, farmers bearing plows upon their backs, and makeshift warriors with swords and halberds. Dogs drove sheep along the fringes of the train, amid a faint, flat clatter of bells. More than one villager raised hands in greeting as the two wizards passed. An old granny knitting in the back of a wagon croaked cheerily, "You're headed the wrong way, boys!" Kara's voice was faintly heard to exclaim in shocked disapproval, "Mother!"
Rudy grinned. "So that's an untaught mage, than which there's nothing in the world more dangerous?"
"She knows her own limitations." Ingold smiled at the memory of that shy, homely woman. "As a rule, half-taught mages are worse even than the untaught, but she has the goodness of heart that wizards often lack. Among wizards she is an exception, in her way."
"Is she?"
Ingold shrugged. "Wizards are not nice people, Rudy. Kindliness of heart is seldom the leading characteristic of a mage. Most of us are proud as Satan, especially those with only a few months' training. That's the reason for the Council. Something must exist to counterbalance the effects of the knowledge that you can, in fact, alter the paths of the universe. Haven't you felt it—that euphoria that comes with knowing that you can braid fire in your hands and twist the wi
nds of Heaven to your bidding?"
Rudy shot him an uneasy glance and met eyes that were far too knowing and a smile of wicked amusement at having read his mind. He grumbled unwillingly, "Yeah—well —I mean, so what?"
The last of the herds was passing them, the whitish dust skating on the wind. Under a featureless sky, the stony emptiness stretched away to nothing. "So what indeed?" Ingold smiled. "Except that the ecstasy of power has a terrible way of getting out of hand. The Council and the Archmage have their work cut out for them to hold in check, not the power itself, but the souls of those who wield it."
Rudy thought for a moment about that, remembering the feeling that had sprung to his heart when he called fire, the quick, gleeful sparkle of triumph when his illusions worked. And he saw suddenly the trailhead of a path that could lead to evil past contemplating. But it was evil he understood. It was seeking knowledge for the sake of knowledge and power for power's sake, leaving Minalde to search for his own destiny, and staying in that hidden chamber to fathom a crystal's mysteries, while Ingold faced death and the Keep's destruction outside. He saw in himself the potential for unchecked power.
Even as his mind shied from that thought, he wondered, Does Ingold feel it, too? Does Lohiro? Like a young and golden dragon, with those empty, glittering eyes, the picture of the Archmage returned to him. Has he wrestled •with the ecstasy of unlimited horizons?
He must have, Rudy thought, If they made him Archmage. The most powerful wizard in the world, master of all the others. You really have to have your act together to stay straight under the weight of that one. Power—pure power. The rush from that must outdo any drug ever formulated.
"How long does it take?" he asked. "How long do you have to study at Quo?"
"Most people stay there three to five years," the old man said, turning away from the vanishing dust-cloud on the backward road and setting his face to the featureless west once again. "But, as you see, not all mages take their training there. In times past, there were other centers of wizardry, the largest of which were centered around Penambra. And then, other mages learn by apprenticeship to itinerant conjurers, as Kara's mother probably did. The third echelon, the firebringers and finders and goodwords, operates purely instinctively, if it operates at all. But the center is at Quo. Its towers are our home."
The Walls of the Air Page 9