by Dave Smeds
The larger picture of the war against Gloroc, though it had been explained to Toren several times, had, at least until that moment, remained remote. Lost in contemplation, the Vanihr answered belatedly, "Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored."
"Good," Keron said. "In the meantime, there is something I would like you to do." He unbuckled his belt, a strap of dragon hide embroidered with gold, set with rubies in the shape of a dragon in flight. He handed it to Toren. The smell of magic exuded from it.
"That is the belt of Alemar Dragonslayer," the king said. "It multiplies the strength of the wearer. My son and I are the only living men who can activate it. If you are all that Struth hopes, it will work for you. You may give it back to me tonight."
King and wizard walked away, resuming their conversation. The belt, lying in Toren's palm, already tickled. He strapped it on. It rode on his waist like air-no weight at all-but otherwise he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He waited for the energies to stir within him.
"Well," Geim said, "Try something."
"Like what?"
Geim scratched his head. "Perhaps you could lift your oeikani."
"Don't be foolish," Toren said. Obviously the belt did not work. And even if it did, the oeikani weighed far too much. But for the sake of the experiment, he braced himself under his mount and lifted.
The animal, much to its surprise, rose completely off the ground. Toren set it down quickly, huffing. Geim stroked the buck's neck to soothe it. True to its nature, it regained its composure immediately.
Vigor, hot and pounding, coursed through Toren's body. His muscles shuddered uncontrollably. After a bit of trial and error, he managed to adjust the talisman's output. The power faded. The belt waited quiescently on his hips for the next demand.
The modhiv grinned from ear to ear. He slapped Geim on the back-not too hard-and they headed for the stable.
****
Keron tried to calm all the thoughts bubbling in his head as he and Obo strolled together toward the dome of the high priestess, but concerns only sprang forth with renewed vitality. "Toren shows a spirit I found lacking in the other candidates," the king said. "What do you think of him?"
"He is a good person. He loves to succeed, becomes morose when he fails. All the pride of the Dragonslayer, tempered by an occasional lapse of confidence that serves to keep him humble. I like him, my liege."
"But will he be able to use the gauntlets?"
The wizard glanced at his toes. The furrows of his forehead deepened. "In my judgment, he is well beyond the level of the earlier candidates. Struth and Janna concur. But no matter how closely his powers seem to echo those of Alemar the Great, he is a different person. I doubt that anyone alive now or yet to be born will ever be able to activate the talismans as completely as the sorcerer himself. And if Toren is that gifted, that poses a whole new set of questions."
"What do you mean?"
"Think of what might happen to the world if an adept as powerful as Alemar Dragonslayer were set loose in it. Your ancestor changed the face of the civilized world."
Keron nodded. "That's true. But Alemar had the help of his sister, who by all accounts was nearly as powerful as he. And the two of them lived an incredible number of years. They had already lived more than a normal lifetime before they killed Faroc and Triss. To build Elandris required centuries more. No sorcerer since that time has learned how to stretch his years over such a long span."
"Don't remind me," Obo said.
Keron frowned. The skin on the back of Obo's hands and on his temple had thinned almost to translucence. Dark purple veins showed through. His gait wobbled. The last three years had not been kind to the wizard. It pained the king, after losing so many comrades to the war, to have nature snatching another away.
"There is a master in Acalon known to be almost two hundred years old," Obo mused. "But he has dedicated his career to longevity spells and elixirs. You have a point. Toren has limits, if for no other reason than that his talent was stunted in childhood. And this speculation may be moot. He may die fighting Gloroc."
"And will he be willing to fight for us?"
They came to the portal of the dome. Obo paused. "Yes. I think he will. Not that he will be eager, but at this point he has little to gain by refusing. I pray we are not leading him to suicide."
They crossed the threshold. Janna waited in one of her divans. She stood.
"Welcome, son of Alemar," the high priestess called. "The goddess awaits you." She gestured at the opening in the floor. The stairs beckoned him.
Keron sighed. Even after three years of alliance and a half dozen visits, an audience with Struth intimidated him. Obo hung back. "Aren't you coming?" the king asked.
"No. I need to rest." The wizard turned and waddled away, spine bent. A dagger of melancholy nicked Keron in the chest. He stroked his waist, but the belt was not there to comfort him.
Janna waited calmly, as alluring as he had always found her to be. The sea vista outside the dome's walls reminded him of his home. He wished he could linger, but he sighed again and descended into the blue werelight of the passageway.
****
"What word from the emperor?" Struth boomed.
Keron waited near the base of the stairs, where the speaker's great bulk did not seem to loom quite so high. "He has agreed to send his army. He has recognized that Gloroc poses a threat to the commonwealth. The muster has already begun. The battalions will be led by the emperor's second son, Fanhar."
"An excellent choice."
"Yes. A level-headed young man. He seems willing to put himself completely at my disposal, and stay out of the way when necessary. I couldn't have asked for a better field commander. He is very unlike his father."
"The prince is a bastard," Struth said. "The emperor is sterile. All his children are the result of his wife's infidelity."
Keron did not ask how Struth knew, but he had no doubt it was the truth. "Then I admire the lady's taste. She chose the right stud," he commented dryly.
"The queen is a remarkable woman. I went to some lengths to maneuver her into the emperor's bed, some thirty years ago. It is no accident that the weight of the Calinin Empire has tipped in our favor."
"I did not assume that it was. The emperor acted like a man under certain… pressures. Though it did not strike me as coming from the queen."
"It came from all quarters. My temples have been busy. How soon will you be ready to march?"
"I'll begin the offensive as soon as Fanhar and his army arrive in Tazh Tah. We have the strength to push Gloroc's forces back to the coast. If Toren succeeds, I'll seize ships and take the fight back to Elandris."
"Good. Once the usurper is dead, the dynasty of Alemar must show its fitness to rule. Gloroc's generals and sorcerers are an ambitious lot."
"I'll gladly fight his men. Without a dragon to bolster their confidence, they can be daunted." Keron wiped sweat from his eyebrows, though the cold and clammy chamber provided little reason to perspire.
"Indeed. I will be happy to let you. Gloroc is all I care about. Once he is dead my duty will be fulfilled. I promised the Dragonslayer only that I would help destroy the children of Faroc and Triss."
"But you will continue to aid us?" Keron asked quickly.
"Of course. I may decide to erect a temple in Elandris. But my support will not be on the level of finding candidates for the gauntlets, and hiding them from skilled searchers. I am weary. It is time for the game to end. I have searched the surface of Tanagaran and there are no more people alive with the qualities we need. Toren must succeed."
"And do you think he will?"
For the first time in his life, Keron thought he detected a shrug out of Struth. "He must."
Keron's joints ached. His muscles protested each time he did as little as trade his weight from one foot to the other. An end to the game? That seemed an incredible luxury. Keron could not see an end, only the part he must play, and that burdened him like a cloak laced with gold and lea
d.
"How soon will Toren be ready, assuming he agrees to the mission?" the king asked.
"Janna will give him his final test in three days. By the time you have rejoined Prince Val and your subjects, my messenger will have caught up with you with the news."
Keron sighed. Not the end of the game, but perhaps the conclusion of endless preparations. In a few weeks, successful candidate or not, the campaign would begin. Keron's shoulders drooped.
"Do you have more questions of me?" Struth asked after a silence.
"Not now," Keron said. "Perhaps I will think of more later today. A request, however. I would like to see my ancestors."
"Certainly." Struth's giant eyes blinked, and suddenly a narrow doorway appeared in the wall behind Keron. The king turned and without a word strode across the threshold.
The doorway opened out into a sepulcher. The cerulean tones of the werelight shifted to emerald. The greenish glow reflected off two sarcophagi in the center of the chamber. Pale fungus streaked the stone surface of the coffins. A body lay in each, visible through transparent vartham covers.
Embalming and the sorceries within the sarcophagi preserved the corpses in an almost lifelike state. Only a waxy stiffness in the skin betrayed that they were dead, not merely asleep. On the left rested a woman. She was slender, short, girlishly figured, attired in an exquisite satin gown. A thick sprawl of jet black hair pillowed her head. The first crinkle of age showed in the corners of her closed eyes and the creases of her lips. The wilting of a flower, Keron thought. By rights the body should have resembled that of a crone, since she had died of old age.
In the other coffin lay a short, spare man. His hair matched his companion's, except for a dusting of white at both temples. Again, only slight signs of age marred otherwise youthful features. Plush silk upholstery lined both sarcophagi, cradling the occupants in finery as rich as their garments, beds fit for the highest royalty.
Both resembled Keron as if they were his parents.
The king tried to swallow, but his parched throat refused. He had had the same reaction the first time that he had viewed these remains of Alemar Dragonslayer and his sister Miranda. The latter particularly affected him, since he could not help but recall the phantom of her he had seen at her oracle in Firsthold, when she had told him of the existence of the talismans of Setan, and he had sent his twin children to the Eastern Deserts in search of them. She had seemed so alive then.
How much easier his burden would be now, had the sorcerers been able to cheat time another millennium. How long had they lived? Seven centuries at least, before the years bore them down at last and they hid here, with Struth, where Gloroc could not find their bodies and violate their repose as he had that of the line of Elandri kings housed in the royal crypts in Firsthold. Alemar the Great could have taken up the gauntlets and defeated Gloroc upon his first appearance, before the Dragon could conquer as much as one city.
Keron sighed bitterly. "You left it all to me, you bilge drinkers." Me and my children and cousins, all exiles now, clinging to a desperate hope. We didn't even know where this sepulcher lay until three years ago.
The king reached out and set his hand on the lid of the Dragonslayer's coffin. "Better for us all if you had never taken a wife," he murmured.
But the wizard had. And from the son of that union had ultimately come dozens of branches of descendants, though the attrition of the war had devastated the current generation. At least, Keron thought, your greatest ally survives in this temple.
The king of Elandris turned and stalked back out. He felt the need to spend a few quiet hours with Obo, before his old friend likewise passed out of human ken.
XXIV
THREE DAYS AFTER Keron's visit, Janna summoned Toren to her chamber. "Time to decide," she declared. "Struth and I have done what we could to train you. We'll teach you no more unless you agree to help us kill Gloroc. Will you do so, or will you leave for home?"
Toren paced back and forth, staring out at the crustaceans and kelp "outside" the dome. He took a deep breath. "Yes. I will wear the gauntlets, if I can."
The high priestess nodded, losing none of her solemnity. "Then it is time for one more test." She strolled back to the table between her divans, where a kettle of water heated above a small brazier. "Only one candidate before you reached this point. I must warn you that this test killed her."
"I know. Deena told me."
Janna folded her hands. "It was unintentional, of course. The spell is both powerful and delicate. When I sensed that she was failing, I tried to halt it, but I was too late. The same may happen with you. If Struth and I were convinced that you would fail, we would not have you attempt it. But we have reason to think you will overcome."
Toren continued pacing. "Then let's be done with it." His mind filled with thoughts of Rhi, and then with thoughts of Deena.
Janna blew out the brazier flame and sprinkled tea leaves into the steaming water. The liquid darkened. She let it steep for the count of five, then she hurriedly poured two cups, as if the timing were critical. She handed one to Toren. "Drink this when I tell you. It will be as hot as you can stand it, but you must get it down quickly."
A pungent fragrance smote his nostrils. "What is this called?"
"The Tea of Dreams. A bit like the potion you took when Obo taught you the High Speech, or when your shaman created your totem, but its effects are more short-lived. It will last just long enough for the test."
"You have to drink it as well?"
"Yes. That's one of the reasons I couldn't save the former candidate. To push you to your limit, I must tread a fine line of equilibrium myself. There is danger for me as well as you."
The porcelain warmed in his hands. Finally she gestured. He followed her example and drank the tea by sucking it in very quickly, letting the indrawn air cool it. His tongue and cheeks tingled from the heat, and from the spicy flavor.
Janna moved the table from between the divans and they sat across from each other in their customary arrangement: knees touching knees, left hands clasped. Their gazes locked. Gradually the background noises grew unusually loud. Toren's pulse murmured in his temples. A faint echo of ocean currents beat at the walls. A whale sang somewhere in the distance. Janna's pupils became black pools, drawing him within.
He heard a sudden buzz, followed by the by-now-familiar sensation of being elsewhere. The high priestess's dome vanished. He waited to be taken to whatever place she intended, but no visions came. Blackness surrounded him, neither warm nor cold. The only sound was a rhythmic beat, like that of his heart.
The place was old.
He couldn't say how he knew this when he didn't even know where he was, or how a dark, featureless location could have an age to begin with, but he felt the centuries weigh down upon him. Weariness took him. There was nothing interesting here. He wanted only to sleep, only to shut off his awareness.
No.
Alarm overwhelmed him. He tried to break through the dark walls, and they squeezed more tightly. He started to inhale, but a veil coated his face, smothering him. He tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to go. He had no limbs, he had no eyes. He was caught like a gnat in honey.
Sleep, said a voice. Be mine. I am your one and only true guide.
An inner conviction told him he had to break free now, or not at all. But his limbs refused to move, and the direction out of the blackness eluded him. He desperately stanched waves of panic and screamed, "Geim! Stop her!"
He had last seen Geim helping repair the mortar around one of the pools in the garden. Toren despaired. There was no time for his fellow Vanihr to run here from the site. Toren saw pinpoints of light flicker chaotically in front of his eyes. The veil of suffocation clenched more tightly. Oblivion reached up for him. Not enough time…
But time flowed strangely here. Suddenly his head rang. Janna's audience chamber splashed into view. All his senses returned.
Janna lay sprawled across her divan. Geim stood over her, his open han
d upraised. He shook his head, slightly glassy-eyed. A red welt was rising on the priestess's cheek.
Toren stared, dumbfounded. Geim recovered his wits and grunted in astonishment. The woman on the divan, though nearly identical in height, complexion, and hair color with Janna, was not the same person. Her body was narrower, her breasts smaller, her chin more angular, her fingers slightly longer. As she groaned and lifted her head into full view, Toren noticed faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, the first traces of lost youth.
She blinked. "I'm sorry, my lady," Geim blurted, helping her to sit up. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I don't even know why I burst in here."
"You were compelled," she said evenly, gently pressing her cheek. She winced. "That was an excellent maneuver, Toren. Struth and I thought of a number of ways you might break out of the trap. Bringing help from outside didn't occur to us. But it was legitimate-and most important of all, it worked. You passed the test."
Toren heard her words, but their full impact did not sink in. He continued to stare at her in puzzlement. "But your appearance?"
Janna smoothed the delicate lines in her neck. "A gift from Struth-an illusion, like the ocean you see through these walls. I was so wrapped up in the spellcasting that I couldn't do my part to maintain it."
"But why hide your features?"
"Many things are hidden in the temple of Struth. Call this one a woman's vanity." She waved a hand over her face. As it passed, her familiar countenance returned. "You see? Isn't this more attractive?"
"You were lovely the other way, too," Toren said.
Janna smiled. "You are a flatterer. Think of my junior priestesses. They are all stunning. How would it seem if their teacher were less than exquisite?"
"The illusion is perfect," he said, still confused. "After all this training, why I can't detect the magic that maintains it? All this time, I've never suspected you were masked."
"That's because of Struth," Janna said, and rose. "Speaking of whom, if Geim will excuse us, it is time to visit her."