Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  Katya spoke for the first time then, grey eyes intent on the sorcerer's face, her tone level, neither accepting nor accusing: "You speak much of scrying, of knowing that we three came. You offer us apologies for the manner in which we were brought here, and promise explanation. But as yet Pve heard none."

  The hands unfolded, settled flat upon the table. Calandryll saw that the nails were long, and lacquered golden. Ochen met Katya's bold stare and smiled.

  "Aye, you speak the truth, and directly. I shall explain, but that must surely take some time, and must perforce involve both Chazali and Temchen. So—do you grant me permission to enhance that gramarye that allows us to converse, that they may understand? It is in my power to give you the tongue of this land."

  "More sorcery!" Bracht muttered.

  "But mightily useful," Katya said thoughtfully, "if we are to go on."

  "You'd let this wizard put his magicks in you?"

  Bracht shook his head in vigorous dismissal, his blue eyes wide and wary. Katya met his gaze and said, "I think that if he wished to do so, there is little we might do to prevent him. He has not; neither has he yet offered us harm. Is that not some token of his good faith?"

  Calandryll said, "Aye, it would seem so."

  Bracht sniffed, grunted, thought a moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps," he allowed, unconvinced.

  "What harm in it?" asked Calandryll.

  "What harm in any wizard's workings?" answered Bracht. "What other gramaryes might he not work on us?"

  "Perhaps I've the answer to your doubt," offered Ochen, and tapped a nail against the hilt of Calandryll's sword. "This blade has power, no? I feel it—the strength of a goddess, of Dera herself, is in this sword. Were I to attempt fell magic, to deceive you, would the blade not reveal my treachery?"

  Bracht, Katya, Cennaire, all turned their eyes to Calandryll for answer. He pondered a moment, unsure, then slowly said, "It may be so. Certainly it revealed"—he was about to say "Rhythamun," amended that to—"the creature that possessed Mor- rach."

  Bracht shook his head, not yet willing to forget long-held prejudice, gestured at the glyphs marking the walls. "We sit surrounded by his sortilege," he argued. "Might that not overwhelm even Dera's gift?"

  "You flatter me." Ochen chuckled, face crinkling. "I am not so great a mage as to overcome the power of a goddess. And these sigils are for all our protection."

  "Test him," suggested Katya. "Surely, if his magic is fell the blade must reveal it."

  Still Bracht remained doubtful, but Calandryll nodded, saying, "Aye—do you submit to such proof?"

  "Happily," Ochen conceded.

  Unthinking, Calandryll reached toward the sword, and a stool fell clattering, his hand halted by Tem- chen's blade. Dera, but the man was near as fast as Bracht, the curved steel glinting in the circle of sunlight, the edge a razor across his wrist. Chazali, too, was on his feet, sword drawn, raised ready to attack. Bracht was no slower, coming upright swift as a flighted arrow, plunging forward, left hand slapping Temchen's blade aside, the right grasping the falchion's hilt. Calandryll saw hairs, cut from his wrist, drift in the circle of sunlight, Chazali moving to direct a blow at Bracht's head, Katya rising, a storm building in her grey eyes as she, too, readied for battle.

  "Stop! Enough!" Ochen's voice was no longer a dry-leafed rustling, but thunder, booming loud, authoritative, brooking no disobedience. "In Horul's name—by the names of all the gods!—are we squabbling children?"

  There was such power in his command that the words fell like blows, numbing. Temchen, Chazali, froze. Bracht sprawled across the table, the drawn falchion still in his hand. Calandryll was surprised to see the old man was seated, not on his feet.

  "Sit!"

  It was a command addressed to the Jesserytes: they obeyed. Bracht was slower, and Calandryll said, "Aye, rest easy," waiting until the Kern sank back, tanned features morose. Katya touched his arm, ducking her head in agreement, urging him to calm. Calandryll glanced toward Temchen and Chazali, to Ochen, who nodded, and drew the straightsword.

  He turned the blade to the sorcerer and said, "Do you take it then? In both your hands."

  "Be I liar, may the goddess destroy me," said Ochen, and set his hands firm on the steel.

  Calandryll studied the gnarled face, concentrated his will, seeking knowledge of the sword. Surely, did Ochen lie, were he false, the blade would know it and show him for a betrayer. He felt nothing: the ancient showed no discomfort. Calandryll said, "I deem him truthful."

  "Which is good enough for me," said Katya, adding, softer, "for now, at least."

  Ochen let go his hold and Calandryll sheathed the blade, looking to Bracht. The Kern shrugged, not speaking, and Calandryll said, "I say we allow this gramarye."

  "Aye," Katya agreed.

  Bracht shrugged again, which Calandryll took as acceptance. It did not occur to him to ask Cennaire's opinion, nor did he see the shadow of alarm that passed across her face as he returned his gaze to Ochen and said, "So be it—work this magic."

  The ancient smiled and rose, his eyes level with Calandryll's mouth. "I think," he said, smiling, "that you had best"seat yourself."

  "And hold your sword," Bracht muttered.

  "If you wish." Ochen's response was negligent, confident.

  Calandryll drew the sword closer, slipping it · once more from the scabbard, settling it across his thighs, right hand firm on the hilt, left loose about the edges, and Ochen stepped toward him.

  The long-nailed hands were dry and warm as they touched his cheeks, papery. He let them tilt back his head so that he looked into the nearhidden eyes. Ochen spoke, the words in a tongue unknown, and the eyes—a yellow, Calandryll briefly realized, akin to the feline shades that seemed common among the Jesserytes, but brighter, more golden—expanded, glowing, until all else was lost in hues of swirling light. He caught the scent of almonds, and thought an instant of Menelian, in Vishat'yi, then of nothing, for he plunged into the light and it consumed him, filling him.

  There was darkness for a moment then, and he shook his head, as does a man waking from sleep, unsure how long the mage had held him, blinking as his vision cleared, seeing Ochen stood back, smiling. He glanced at the sword: straight, edged steel, no hint of magic in it, and looked a question at Bracht, at Katya.

  Both shook their heads. The woman said, "There was no sign."

  "I felt nothing," he replied, and wondered why she frowned.

  Because, he realized with a shock, he used Jesseryte words, and said the same again, in the Envah.

  "A most useful gramarye," she murmured. "A gift worth the accepting."

  "Then take it," Ochen said, and touched her face.

  Calandryll watched, intently, the words the sorcerer spoke no more comprehensible than before, the almond scent as pungent. No light, though, this time, only the small, old man standing over the taller woman, her flaxen hair streamed back as she tilted her head, accepting. It did not take long, no more than a few heartbeats before he released her, and she sat a little while, seeming confused, rubbing at her eyes. Then she smiled and said, "I feel no different."

  Like Calandryll, she spoke in the Jesseryte language.

  Bracht flinched as Ochen came toward him, body stiff with tension, distaste writ clear on his lean features, but still he submitted, allowing the mage to instill the gift of tongues.

  "Was that so painful?" Ochen asked gently, and Bracht shook his head, answering, "Tak," which in Jesseryte was "no."

  The sorcerer went then to Cennaire, who flinched like Bracht, so that Calandryll thought her fearful and said, seeking to reassure her, "There's neither pain nor harm."

  He could not know she feared revelation, feared that Ochen must look into the depths of her being and expose her. She thought a moment of resisting—and knew that, too, must reveal her, close to panic then, contemplating flight. To where, though? How far might she get, two armored men across the table, more outside? And the mage close. Menelian she had defeated—would Ochen se
e that? See the blood on her hands?—but he had contested alone: did she resist this wizard, fight him, might Calandryll not take up that goddess-blessed blade and use it on her? That, she thought, she could not defeat.

  Then gentle hands rested warm against her skin. Almost, she clutched the wrists; might, she knew, have snapped them, but Ochen spoke, soft, whispering.

  "We each do what we must; play the part assigned us. But fate's road makes many turnings, there are many branches. Fear not, your decision must be later come."

  Somehow she knew that she alone of all within the chamber heard him, and felt a calm descend, confident—though she knew not how—that did he pierce the secret lodged beneath her ribs, he would not speak of it. At least, not yet; perhaps never. She forced her trembling body to relax and gave herself up to his magic.

  "You see?" Calandryll was smiling at her. "Was it so hard?"

  "Tak," she answered. "Jo ke-amrisen," and returned his smile, relieved.

  Ochen studied her a moment, inscrutable, then nodded as if satisfied, turning away to resume his seat.

  "We may now converse freely," he announced. "Let us properly introduce ourselves, as civilized folk do."

  He performed a seated bow, indicating that the four—guests or still prisoners, they were not yet entirely certain—should speak first.

  One by one they named themselves in full, which took no great time, and then Ochen said formally, "I am, as you know, Ochen. By full title, I am Ochen Tajen Makusen, of Pamur-teng, home hold of the clan Makusen. I hold the title of wazir—sorcerer and priest of Horul."

  He bowed again and Chazali came to his feet, armor rattling, head ducking in ritual greeting, a hand slapping his breastplate in formal salute.

  "I am Chazali Nakoti Makusen of the clan Makusen, kiriwashen of Pamur-teng."

  Again, he bowed, and resumed his place as Temchen rose, performing the same ritual salute.

  "I am Temchen Nakoti Makusen of the clan Makusen. I am kutushen of Pamur-teng."

  The titles were unfamiliar, even granted Ochen's gift of comprehension, military ranks as best the four could understand. The kiriwashen was the senior, commander of thousands, the title meant, the kutushen leader of a hundred. Calandryll, diplomatic, asked, "How shall we address you?" even as he wondered what brought officers of such status to a keep that could surely not hold a garrison of more than a century.

  "With honored guests it is our custom that the birth-name be used," said Ochen. "Shall that suit?"

  Calandryll answered in the affirmative, the tension eased somewhat, but not yet dissipated, trust a promise yet to be grasped firm. Bracht sat silent, his face set in controlled lines, as if he was not yet convinced. Cennaire was thoughtful. Katya appeared better at ease, and asked, "Shall you now explain?"

  "As best I may," Ochen returned, and gestured at the glyphs covering the walls. "These, as you surmise, are sigils of gramarye; set to defend us against such prying as my kind command. Within this chamber, none may know what we say or do."

  "Why?" Bracht demanded.

  Ochen sighed, fingers entwining, his silvered head lowering a moment, as if he collected thoughts, then: "We embark on a lengthy tale. Shall it be told over wine?"

  Without awaiting a reply, he nodded to Temchen, who rose and strode to the door, calling out that wine and cups be brought. They waited until a man returned, bearing a tray of lacquered wood that he set down on the table, bowing low and withdrawing. When the door was closed behind him, Temchen took the golden jug and filled the seven porcelain cups with a dark yellow liquid. Calandryll saw that Bracht waited until the Jesserytes had sipped before tasting the vintage,- and that his reticence was noticed by Ochen. For his own part, he drank readily enough, not anticipating treachery, and found the wine good, rich, and slightly sweet.

  "You know my land as the Forbidden Country." Ochen set down his cup, nodding thanks as Ternchen poured another measure. "Few venture here— visitors, wanderers, are discouraged. Those merchants trading out of Lysse—what few Vanu folk come down the coast—are confined in Nywan, the Closed City: we have our reasons for such secrecy. Those reasons are our history and, I ofttimes think, our curse.

  "Some claim our land was shaped and we put here by the First Gods. This may be true—I do not know—only that to south and west the Kess Imbrun is a barrier few attempt; our eastern coastline is bleak: little reason for any to make landing. And to the north lies the Borrhun-maj." He paused, sipping wine, wiping delicately at his long mustache. "Beyond those mountains . . . some say the world ends,* others claim the First Gods dwell there . . . none know for sure because none go there. That passage, its attempting even, is forbidden on pain of death. Though"—a rueful chuckle—"such edict is hardly needful, the Borrhun-maj being impassable."

  "You say it so?" Katya demanded when he paused again.

  "I say it so," he confirmed, "even though you'd attempt it."

  "You forbid us?" snapped Bracht.

  And Ochen raised a hand, mildly gesturing the Kern to silence. "I say that magic of inconceivable power is vested there," he answered. "That layer upon layer of barriers exist. Do you folk of Cuan na'For—folk known for your courage—not avoid the Geff Pass, that place you name Hell Mouth? Do such creatures as inhabit nightmares not dwell therein? I tell you that worse exist in the Borrhun- maj, and that they are no more than gatekeepers."

  "Gatekeepers may be avoided," Bracht said, "and monsters slain."

  "Oh, that I know. And that you've done as much."

  Ochen smiled briefly as the Kern frowned. "Much of what you three have accomplished we wazirs have seen. But I tell you still that such creatures as you encountered in Tezin-dar are as nothing to these."

  Now Calandryll frowned, wondering how the ancient mage came by such knowledge of their jour- neyings. What magicks did the wazirs of the Jesseryn Plain command, that they might know of Tezin-dar?

  "Think you that your travails go unnoticed?" Did Ochen read his mind? His expression? "What you have done, what you attempt—that affects the occult fundus. The aethyr is not a thing apart, but a realm that coexists with our mortal plane—and you are known there."

  "More riddles!" Bracht reached across the table for the jug. "Must sorcerers always speak in riddles?"

  "At times perforce we must," said Ochen, not offended; more amused, it seemed, for all a terrible gravity lay beneath his words, behind his gentle smile. "The aethyr is a hard thing to explain, neither do we who are gifted with the sight, the talent for sorcery, always comprehend that realm—so, aye: betimes we've only riddles to use, not plain words."

  "I," said Bracht, "am a plain man."

  "Plainly," agreed Ochen, "and you've my word I shall do my best to set this out in simple language. But I crave your indulgence—hear me out and ask what questions you will. My word on honest answers; though not, I fear, always simple."

  Bracht was a little mollified by that return and ducked his head, gesturing for the mage to continue.

  "For now accept that your quest was noticed," Ochen went on, "that our magicks showed us such disturbance within the occult realm that we guessed a part and saw another. Much, I suspect, as did the mages of Vanu." This with a glance at Katya, who nodded confirmation. "And doubtless others. Though it would seem they saw it unclearly, or chose to do nothing, or were otherwise occupied."

  "Menelian said as much!" Calandryll could not help himself: he found trust in this wizened old man burgeoned, and a tremendous curiosity. "In Vishat'yi he said the same."

  "He was a sorcerer?" asked Ochen.

  "In service to the Tyrant of Kandahar," Calandryll replied, choosing to ignore Bracht's warning grunt. Did Ochen see so much, what reason to attempt concealment? "Busied with civil war."

  "Kandahar rises against its Tyrant? Aught else?"

  For an instant the narrow eyes blazed golden, alarmed; Calandryll nodded and said, "In Lysse my brother would raise a navy, go to war with Kandahar. In Cuan na'For, Jehenne ni Larrhyn spoke of bellicose alliance, the invasi
on of Lysse."

  "He stirs! All the gods help us, he stirs! Thank Horul you were found!" Ochen grew agitated a moment, calmed himself with visible effort. Across the table, Temchen and Chazali radiated palpable tension, their armor rattling as they shifted uncomfortably, like warhorses sensing impending battle. Then: "Endings and beginnings entwine here, and we had best join all we know together do we dare hope for success."

  "You speak of Tharn?" asked Calandryll. "Of the Mad God?"

  "None else." Ochen answered with a solemn nod. "But let me seek the start of this thread and spin it out in ways we may all understand. So: the Borrhun-maj is formidably guarded. Vile creatures roam those slopes, and did you avoid them, then still you must face the mountains, which touch the sky and howl with such cold winds as still the blood, even at summer's height. More—there are gramaryes set there by the First Gods, by Yl and Kyta themselves, that none may approach those places where they set their sons, Tharn and Balatur, when the godwars were ended."

  "And yet," said Calandryll, "there is a way, no?"

  "Aye," said Ochen. "The which—may the gods forgive me—prompts me to wonder if even gods are truly all-knowing. There is a way, were the traveler possessed of such knowledge and such power as to attempt it. And were he mad enough!

  "Listen, legend has it that we Jesserytes were set down in this place to ward those approaches—for that reason, and that alone, we cut ourselves off, became the Forbidden Country—that none should find their way to Tharn's resting place. Nor Balatur's, lest that balance brought by the Younger Gods be disturbed and all the world fall down in chaos.

  "That trust we have held down all the span of centuries; and well enough, I think. But still, long and long ago, the wazirs of that time perceived such portents as suggested the way was found, or known of, at the least. Then, little could be done—it was scried only that the presence of the book—the Arcanum!—was known, and that one sought it. Who, remained a mystery, and it was believed that Tezin-dar itself was lost in terms both physical and magical."

  He broke off, taking more wine, as if needing such fortification. Calandryll said bitterly, "Rhythamun!"