Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "Did you doubt it?" he asked vainly. "Aye, through the mirror, do you but show me what it reveals."

  "Of all the world's mages," she said, her tone deliberately adulatory, "I think that only you might overcome Rhythamun."

  Anomius beamed, preening, basking in her wisely chosen praise. "Aye," he agreed, "and so I shall, when the time comes."

  "Where are you now?" she asked, deliberately humble, pandering to his conceit.

  "Outside Mherut'yi," he told her, vanity rendering him loquacious. "The town lies under siege, defended by such gramaryes as only I may undo."

  "And then?"

  "Likely south to take those other bastions Sathoman now holds. Wait!" The mirror was abruptly dark, as if he thrust it into a sleeve. Cennaire heard faint voices, too muffled that she could make out the words. Then Anomius's face returned. "These petty wizards require me," he announced. "Contact me when next you may."

  "That may well be difficult," she warned. "We ride out soon and there will likely be little chance to speak unobserved."

  She spoke only the truth, albeit her motives were mixed. In such close company as their progress across the Plain must bring, with Ochen in attendance, it would, indeed, be hard to use the mirror unnoticed; but also she sought to buy herself time, to allow an ordering of her thoughts, perhaps even a settlement of her loyalties, but without incurring suspicion or wrath. She watched the mirror, Anomius's face there, puckered in a frown, or a scowl—his visage was such the two were indistinguishable—awaiting his response.

  "Aye," he said at last, though reluctantly. "When you may, then."

  "I shall," she returned.

  He nodded, grunted, and mumbled the words that ended the enchantment, his image fading, replaced a moment by the spectral colors. The almond scent strengthened, then was gone, and the mirror became again only a disk of glass. Cennaire set it aside, not moving, staring at the rectangle of night framed by the window as her mind raced, assessing all she had learned, and how it might be turned to advantage.

  She was more than a little frightened, for Anomius was clearly confident he would soon rid himself of the occult confinements that bound him to the Tyrant's service, and were he able to travel at will he might feel no further need of her. Save, she thought, that he must have the mirror's sight to define his location. She knew enough of magic that she was aware a sorcerer might translate himself safely only to a known destination, one he could see or clearly reconstruct in memory.

  So, the thought reassuring, he would likely leave her to continue with the questers until such time as they came upon Rhythamun or secured the Arcanum ; and that time he could know only through her agency. Until then, did she but placate his impatience, she was safe.

  Comforted by that conclusion she turned her mind to those other tidbits of knowledge he had so casually let slip. He had taught her the cantrip of transportation—she had used it before—but it had not until now occurred to her that by that means she was able to translate herself to his chambers in

  Nhur-jabal. The notion excited her: her heart, he had told her, lay there, in the pyxis.

  Almost, she conjured the image of the room, spoke the words, thinking that did she but go there, she might find her heart and once again own herself, define her allegiances for herself. Common sense stopped her, the half-formed words dying on her tongue. He was not so careless, not so foolish. Vain, undoubtedly,- crazed, too. But imbued with a horrid cunning that would surely have prompted him to encompass the pyxis with protective gram- aryes. Likely he had placed such enchantments on the box, on the chamber, even, as would destroy her heart did she attempt its removal.

  No, that thought accompanied by a bitter curse, that was not the way, save in desperation. Still she must dance to his tune, reliant on his humors as he was on her enforced loyalty. It was an impasse from which she could see no escape but to go on, ostensibly his servant still.

  Even so, there was power in knowledge,- not yet of much use, but in the future, did she but continue to learn all she could of wizards and wizardry . . . then, perhaps, she might regain her heart, become again her own woman.

  What she would do, she did not know. As Ochen had remarked, there were many who would envy those powers she now commanded. She was perhaps immortal, certainly she owned a strength and a stamina beyond mortal imagining, her preternatural senses alone granted her tremendous advantage over human folk, and one gramarye was already hers—might she not learn others?

  Outside, a night bird sang, and its call seemed to mock her. She was powerful beyond men's envisioning, and yet still trapped: heartless, she was prepotent; heartless, she was at the mercy of her heart's possessor. She stared blindly at the night sky, all set with stars, the near-full moon westering toward its setting. A bank of silvered cloud drifted leisurely on the wind's idle breath. Men moved along the ramparts: plain, simple men, whose concerns were ordinary. For a moment she envied them, then her nostrils caught the faint odor of almonds and she thought again of Ochen. Another hand on the strings of her destiny? She was not sure; confused by the wazir's promises and warnings, she could not know whether he was friend or foe. His words had implied friendship, rather than enmity; at least an alliance of sorts. But what were his reasons, what his motives? Those remained hidden, inscrutable as the ancient face that revealed only what he chose to show.

  She wondered then if she should tell him everything Anomius had said. No doubt he would inquire, and that the warlock believed he should soon be free of 'magical bonds was dramatic news. But how would Ochen react? Would he destroy the mirror, for fear of its aiding Anomius; and what might Anomius do then? Would Ochen expose her? Fleetingly, she thought of Calandryll, of his reaction, then pushed the thought firmly aside, for it served only to confuse her further and she felt now that she balanced her own survival.

  To warn Ochen, or not?

  It was a quandary from which only one certainty emerged: she did not want to die.

  Whether or not she wished for immortality— whether or not that was possible—she was not sure. But she was certain she was not yet ready to give up her unnatural life.

  Therefore, she decided as the sky outside paled to the opalescent grey of heralded dawn, she would continue to play the double game, to tell each mage in turn only so much and no more. She would hold back from Ochen the news that Anomius believed he should soon be freed just as she kept Ochen's existence from Anomius. She would continue in her role of willing servant until such time as she must finally choose her side, hoping along the way to glean more knowledge, to find answers to the dilemma.

  It was all she could think of, and she turned from the brightening window, lying back on the bed, closing her eyes in simulation of ordinary sleep.

  MORNING delivered no better answers, serving, rather, to muddle her the more.

  She heard the keep wake, birds singing, men calling in the Jesseryte tongue, the snort and stamp of exercised horses, the rattle of metal and leather, the ring of hooves and boots. Scents rose in profusion, intoxicating: the sweat of animals and men, fresh dung, woodsmoke, cooking food, the pristine odor of stone overlaid with the aftermath of Ochen's cleansing magic, and still, loud to her senses, the lingering offense of Rhythamun's. She rose and performed her toilette, wondering whether she should dress in the finery of the previous night or the robust leathers worn when she crossed Cuan na'For. The resplendent Jesseryte costume was more to her taste, but she thought it perhaps excessive, and so chose the simpler outfit, likely more acceptable to her . . . She was not sure . . . Companions? Comrades? She cursed, unladylike, angry with herself; for her own confusion, and no less with the men who tugged the strings of her destiny. She laced the leathers and went to lean, idly, on the embrasure's sill, watching the bustle in the yard below, the wash of early morning sunlight over the ramparts, until a knocking on her door distracted her.

  She found Katya outside, simply dressed, confirming her own choice of clothing, the Vanu woman smiling a greeting, the suggestion they avail themselve
s of the bathhouse in privacy. She agreed, wondering if this were some subterfuge, a pretext to questioning. Instead, Katya appeared only friendly, engaging in casual conversation, as though the previous night, Ochen's acceptance of her, confirmed her allegiance, dispelling any doubts the warrior woman might have entertained. She spoke of the quest and Bracht's vow—that seeming mightily strange to Cennaire—and of the journey ahead. In turn, Cennaire constructed a tale of her life in Kandahar, of a brief marriage, tragically ended, that left her with funds sufficient to invest in the imaginary caravan and a desire to see something of the larger world.

  Katya laughed at that and said, "That much, at least, is granted you. I think none have gone where we shall travel."

  Cennaire laughed back and said, "I wonder if I shall ever see Kandahar again."

  Then Katya's face grew solemn and she said, "You might yet go back. It would surely be hard journeying, but likely easier than where we must go."

  Cennaire shook her head. "No, I think I could not do that now." She brushed long strands of hair from her face, affecting a degree of embarrassment, that she might watch the flaxen woman from under lowered lashes. "I cannot say exactly why, but I feel . . . destined ... to go with you."

  "Perhaps," said Katya in serious tones, "you are. It would seem a strange coincidence that you came to the Daggan Vhe at that particular time, that you should meet us as you did."

  Cennaire nodded, busying herself with soap as she utilized her senses to determine if suspicion lay behind Katya's musing words. She found none, only acceptance, a proffered friendship, a trifle wary, but nonetheless genuine. It seemed then that her initial assumption had been correct: that Ochen's approbation was sufficient guarantee of her probity. ,

  "Perhaps," Katya went on when Cennaire offered no reply, "the Younger Gods brought you there. They take a hand in this, as they may, and perhaps you've a part to play."

  "Think you so?" Cennaire had no need to feign puzzlement. "How might that be?"

  "I make no pretense of understanding the workings of the gods," Katya answered. "But that you were in that particular place, at that particular time ..." She shrugged, water streaming from bronzed shoulders, and smiled mischievously, "Certainly Calandryll believes it so."

  Cennaire lowered her face, pretending modesty, and said, "He is very handsome. And a prince of Lysse—I was surprised he is not wed."

  "He's a prince no longer, but an outlaw," Katya replied. "He was in love once, but she wed his brother."

  "And is he still?" Cennaire asked.

  "With her?" Katya said. "No."

  Cennaire smiled then, and murmured, "Good."

  Katya nodded without offering further comment, instead suggesting that they quit the bath and find their breakfasts, with which Cennaire agreed, not wishing to overplay her hand.

  They found the hall, Calandryll and Bracht already settled, eating, Ochen and Chazali with them, greeting the two women courteously as they approached. Cennaire looked toward the wazir, but his wrinkled face remained inscrutable behind its smile, and he went rapidly back to his conversation with the kiriwashen. Katya took a place at Bracht's side, answering the Kern's smile with her own, their voices soft as they spoke, excluding the others. Cennaire favored Calandryll with a demure smile as he drew back a stool, murmuring her thanks, pleasantly amused by the flush that promptly suffused his cheeks.

  "We may leave tomorrow," he advised her, struggling to hide the confusion her proximity aroused. "Ochen will have cleansed the keep by then, he says, and we depart at dawn."

  Cennaire nodded, accepting the food a servant set before her, eating with pretended appetite as Calandryll made small talk that to his ears sounded clumsy, to hers charming. Her life, her beauty, had put her often enough in the way of compliments and men's boasting, and usually their approach had been direct—the negotiation of a commercial transaction larded with fine words—and she found Calandryll's innocence refreshing. That he had not the least idea she was once a courtesan made little difference: he might well have boasted of his own exploits, which far outweighed the petty feats of her sundry other admirers, but that was not his way. He complimented her, yes, but awkwardly, and honestly, as if quite unaccustomed to the ritual interchanges between men and women, and that she found entirely engaging. She eased his way a little; not too much, for she remembered her part and forwent the myriad tricks and subtleties she might otherwise have employed, but just enough he began to feel more at ease, less embarrassed.

  Then, as the plates were cleared, Chazali announced that he would leave them, to find Temchen and check the keep's defenses. The departure of the kiriwashen emptied the dining hall as if on a signal, and Ochen, too, excused himself, leaving the four alone. They might well, Cennaire thought, have taken their ease, enjoyed some degree of leisure before departing on what seemed certain to be a long and hazardous journey, but Bracht suggested they attend their horses and the others offered no protest: they made their way to the stables.

  Their animals had been watered and fed, but stood in need of grooming, and it seemed still, from the attitudes of the Jesserytes in the yard, that the larger horses, Bracht's great stallion in particular, were regarded with awe, and more than a little nervousness. The Kern laughed and set promptly to currying the black, crooning endearments that were answered with snickers of contentment, as if man and horse conducted a conversation in some language known only to them.

  "I think," Calandryll remarked as he set to work on his chestnut, Cennaire watching from the gate, "that Bracht loves that horse near as much as he does Katya."

  "And you?" she asked, the coquetry slipping out unbidden, a habit. "Who commands your affections?"

  The stable was shadowy, but she thought he blushed. Certainly, he bent his head closer to the gelding's glossy flank, applying the brush with renewed vigor as he mumbled, "A man's horse is a valuable thing ... it deserves care."

  Cennaire laughed gently, looking to dispel his awkwardness, asking, "Shall you choose a mount for me? I know little of horses."

  "Better that Bracht do that," he replied modestly. "He's a far better judge of horseflesh than I."

  She nodded, choosing not to pursue the conversation, content to simply stand and watch, sometimes handing him a tool he needed, aware of his tentative smile as their fingers touched. It was a companionable silence, and for a while she felt herself far younger, the intervening years slipping away so that she could imagine herself a girl again, watching a brother tend their plow horse on the farm she had almost forgotten.

  It was a brief enough respite, for soon the grooming was done and Bracht emerged from the black horse's stall with the suggestion they practice their swordplay. Katya and Calandryll agreed readily and they returned, not without difficulty in the maze of crepuscular corridors, to their quarters, to gather up the weapons left there in deference to the Jesserytes' hospitality.

  The keep bustled now and they were hard put to gain more than fleeting directions to a yard suitable for sword practice, those men they encountered hurrying about their duties, with little time to spare to call instructions over their shoulders as they trotted briskly on. Consequently, the four found themselves often lost, wandering seemingly deserted corridors lined with closed doors, often devoid of windows, helpless until some other group of busy men was met. The place was unlike any fortress Calandryll had seen, as if constructed of a single vast block of stone through which passages and chambers had been cut, the exterior walls not separate but integral with the interior parts, the courtyards found suddenly, where corridors ended in balconies or windows, or low doors. It reminded him somewhat of an anthill, the Jesserytes its hy- menopterous inhabitants.

  Their social hierarchy, too, seemed as rigid as the insects', for when the four finally descended a narrow stairway into a yard where warriors clad in mail and leather drilled with swords and hook- bladed pikes, they were turned away.

  This was not, they were told by a meticulously polite officer, a training ground suitable for such ho
nored guests. Better—the suggestion couched in terms that brooked no argument—that they find the yard used by the kotu-zen. A man was ordered to bring them there and they followed him along yet more twilit passages to a second yard, this occupied by warriors in the jet armor worn by Chazali and Temchen.

  All activity ceased as they entered, abruptly frozen by their presence. Their escort bowed low and barked an explanation that was answered with a grunt and a dismissive wave. He scurried quickly away, leaving them facing an audience of the kotu- zen, whose stance, Calandryll thought, expressed a mixture of curiosity and outrage, as though some protocol was breached.

  The warrior to whom their escort had spoken raised his veil and bowed, his tawny eyes carefully impassive as he studied them.

  "What service may I render?" he asked.

  Bracht slapped his sheathed falchion and said, "We'd unlimber our sword arms."

  The kotu-zen's eyes rounded as his gaze encompassed the saber hung on Katya's belt. "The ladies, too?" Surprise lent his voice a roughened edge.

  "Aye," Bracht answered cheerfully, grinning in Katya's direction. "This lady wields a blade better than most men."

  The comment aroused a murmuring, clearly shocked, among the onlookers, and Calandryll set a warning hand on Bracht's arm.

  "Is it not your custom?" he asked.

  The kotu-zen shook his head vigorously, his expression suggesting he was torn between horror at so outlandish a notion and the desire to remain polite. "No," he gasped at last. "The women of the kotu do not ..." He caught himself with visible effort. "They do not indulge in the manly arts."

  "Manly?" Bracht shook off Calandryll's restraining hand. "Ahrd, man, I'd wager this woman could take any of you."

  More familiar now with the Jesseryte's physiognomy, Calandryll saw outrage on the warrior's face. Quickly he said, "In Cuan na'For and in Vanu— from whence my friends come—it is the custom that women bear arms and understand their use. Does this offend, we apologize."