Calandryll pondered that explanation, bemused by so strict a social structure, one that seemed, to him, overly rigid, designed—by the Jesserytes7 god, or by the holders of power?—to favor those born into the warrior caste. That whole villages should meekly submit to the depredations of outlaws seemed an affront, an abomination. In Lysse all men were free to bear arms, and what few outlaws existed were soon enough brought to justice either by the city legions or the local inhabitants.
He forbore to question Ochen on that, for fear of giving offense, and asked instead, "And the tensai? Are they assigned their role by Horul? Does the god give them the duty of outlawry?"
Some measure of doubt, of innate disbelief, remained in his voice, for Ochen eyed him a moment, and he was reminded of his tutors in Secca, when he had asked some question that ran wither- shins to their formal discourse.
He was relieved when the wazir smiled and said, "Two schools of thought exist concerning that. Some claim it so—that Horul makes souls tensai; the other that they are dissatisfied spirits escaped from Zajan-ma to claim what life they can."
"And you?" asked Calandryll. "To which school do you belong?"
"A third," said Ochen blandly. "A very small, dissenting school that allows for doubt. In a nutshell—I do not know."
His wrinkled face contorted in a huge smile, so friendly that Calandryll could do little but return it, laughing as the wazir laughed and added, "And every hour I spend with you—your comrades— prompts me to doubt more. I suspect, my friend, that your presence here will change this land beyond imagining. Look you, even now Chazali accepts that your women bear arms—an unprecedent thing!—and that you ride unmasked. He acknowledges you equal to kotu-zen or wazir—and he has never laid eyes on foreigners before, already you change his way of thinking! And mine."
This last was said softer, thoughtfully, and Calandryll inquired, "How so?"
"Your questions." Ochen shrugged, his expression become pensive now. "You prompt me to consider ways of life I had not before thought much about. You prompt me to wonder why outlanders come to battle with the Mad God. Why was that undertaking not given to we Jesserytes? We wazirs, the wazir-narimasu, all know of Tharn, yet when this Rhythamun threatens to awake the god, who comes? An outlawed prince of Lysse,- a clansman of Cuan na'For,- a warrior woman out of Vanu."
"Only we three?" Calandryll studied the old man, turned his eyes toward Cennaire, who rested silent on her blanket, seemingly intent on the examination of her clothing. "Are we not now augmented?"
Ochen followed the direction of his gaze. "Perhaps," he said. "Certainly I think all have a part to play. But at the end ...·?"
He shrugged again, noncommittal, his features suddenly enigmatic. Calandryll would have questioned him further, but just then Chazali approached, asking that the wazir employ his magic to guard the camp and Ochen excused himself, going off with the kiriwashen to set warding cantrips about the perimeters, leaving Calandryll alone.
He looked about, seeing each fire surrounded by a group of kotu-zen. Sometimes a face would turn, inscrutable, toward the outlanders, but none moved to join them, or engage them in conversation, for all they must have appeared as fabulous to the Jesserytes as did those warriors to them. The fire beside which he sat seemed boundaried by some unspoken, invisible fence, left to those not born on the Jesseryn Plain, Ochen the only one readily willing to bridge the gap established by their different cultures, their mores and beliefs.
Those differences had been emphasized that dawn, as they prepared to depart the keep. Kotu-ji had stood with waiting horses, some even bold—or dutiful—enough that they held the Kernish animals, each beast flanked by a second grey-clad man. As the group approached, those had dropped on hands and knees, human mounting stools for the kotu-zen. Chazali and his warriors had used them unthinking, stepping from yard to back to saddle with the casual assumption of habit. Calandryll had stared at the man kneeling beside his chestnut, and Bracht had scowled and asked, "Why do they so debase themselves?" Fortunately, he had thought to speak in his own tongue, so the precise meaning of his words had gone unknown. But not the import, for Chazali had glanced down from his saddle, and while his expression was hidden by his helmet's veil, the angle of his head, the set of his armored shoulders, had radiated disapproval. In the Jesseryte language Bracht had said, "Get up, man. I need no aid to mount my horse," and the kotu-ji had stared, uncomprehending and, so Calandryll felt, afraid. For his own part he had thought an instant that he might—perhaps should—follow the custom of the land, but it had seemed so great an affront to another living being that he should so use a man that he had beckoned the kotu-ji away, bowing in Chazali's direction and saying, "It is our custom to mount unaided." He had feared then that offense was taken, but Ochen had spoken briefly and softly with the kiriwashen, and Chazali had grunted and barked orders that the kneeling kotu-ji remove themselves, and the out- landers had sprung unhelped astride their animals.
No further mention had been made of the incident, and Chazali had remained courteous, but Calandryll felt the kiriwashen observed them somewhat askance. Difference piled on difference, he thought, and must surely continue so: he prayed their alliance should not be threatened.
"You are pensive."
Cennaire's voice brought him from contemplation and he smiled, turning toward the woman. She sat studying him, fireglow dancing in her raven hair, her dark skin ruddy in the light. Her eyes seemed huge as.he looked into them.
"I thought on all the things that separate us from our newfound friends," he murmured. "How different our ways are, and how easy it is to offend them."
Cennaire nodded solemnly, thinking that he looked very young as he frowned; and very handsome. She said, "They are a strange folk, but surely they make allowance for our ways."
"So far, aye," he returned. "But when we reach Pamur-teng, what then? A city will surely impose far greater formality than the trail."
Cennaire shrugged carelessly: a courtesan grew accustomed to difference, to accommodating differing habits, else she did not prosper long. "We shall likely learn their ways as we travel," she suggested, "and in Pamur-teng we must go carefully. Observe, and perhaps change our ways."
Calandryll nodded, then grinned as he ducked his
head in Bracht's direction. "I am not so sure that Bracht will agree," he said.
"Bracht, too, must learn," she responded.
Calandryll shrugged tentative agreement. "We must all learn, I suppose. But even so ..." He frowned again, shaking his head in rue and reluctance. "I cannot bring myself to use a man as a mounting stool, and that is but one small thing the Jesserytes take for granted."
Cennaire, that morning, had been perfectly willing to use the kotu-ji. It seemed to her that if such were the custom of the land, then it was no more than polite acceptance to follow that custom. She had abstained only because the others had done so. Now she wondered if she should voice such opinions, or if that expression would distance Calandryll. She opted for tact and said mildly, "If that is their way ..."
Distaste showed on Calandryll's face and she fell silent. He said, "No," firmly, "I cannot use a man so. I cannot agree with that."
"Then in Pamur-teng we had best be on our guard," she said.
"Aye," he agreed. "And likely we shall not remain there long."
Cennaire was uncertain whether he spoke of himself, Bracht and Katya, or of them all, and that doubt troubled her. She could not allow herself interred in the city, but for now could find no sound argument to convince him she should remain with the questers. The only certainty was that she must be present when—if!—they secured the Arcanum. Somehow, therefore, she must find a reason to continue in their company,* but what that reason might be, she could not for now decide. Did she seduce him, he might well still insist she remain in Pamur-teng—indeed, would likely feel the greater need to see her safe, were he finally infatuated— and that she could not countenance. Somehow she must find a reason. It came to her that Ochen might well
be helpful in the matter, for it seemed the enigmatic wazir had his own reasons for keeping her present, and perhaps he would furnish the justification. Pragmatic, she decided to wait: the city lay long leagues distant, and before they reached the teng she trusted she should find a way.
Aloud, she ventured, "We've much to face before then."
"You heard Ochen speak -of the tensai?" Calandryll assumed a reassuring smile, gesturing at the armored men around the fires. "Likely he is but cautious—we're well enough protected, I think."
And bandits offer me little harm, thought Cennaire, affecting a shudder as she played her part of innocent, favoring him with a nervous look, saying, "I've encountered such men before, remember."
Calandryll, entirely unaware she lied, smiled gallantly. "No harm shall come you while I live," he promised. "And all Chazali's warriors stand betwixt you and any tensai so foolish as to attack us."
For all she acted a role, Cennaire was touched by his chivalry. Surely he was unlike any man she had met before, and the thought that she might one day betray him was a thing she pushed away, a thing she realized she preferred not to contemplate. It had been far easier before she met him, when he had been only a faceless quarry and her purpose singular.
Now her purpose clouded, as if his presence cast a stone into the clear water of her intentions, and she felt herself, in a way, lost, desultory as a rudderless vessel blown by contrary winds. Her only course seemed to be go on, to play her part and wait to see which wind prevailed. It was not a circumstance she welcomed; it was a measure of her dissatisfaction that she allowed it to show on her face, scowling at the fire's merry blaze.
Misinterpreting, Calandryll said, "Surely we're too strong a party bandits will chance attacking. More likely they'll hide from such as we, and seek easier pickings."
"Aye." Swiftly, Cennaire transformed scowl to smile. "I am well protected, sir," she murmured. "And fortunate to have encountered so brave an escort."
Calandryll felt his cheeks grow warm at the compliment, trusting that the fire's light should hide his sudden embarrassment as his tongue tied and foundered for want of some glib response. Cennaire recognized his confusion—that awkwardness, she thought, rendered him all the more charming, for it served to emphasize his innocence, his lack of guile—and she chose to ease him, yawning deliberately, apologizing prettily, and expressing a desire to sleep.
Calandryll agreed readily enough, watching as she drew an unneeded blanket to her chin, her head resting on her saddle, and closed her luminous eyes. She was, he thought, without doubt the loveliest woman he had ever encountered, and possessed of admirable courage. He cursed himself for his clumsiness, wishing his tongue more subtle, that it might better express his feelings,- wishing he were able to better define them. For a while, he continued to watch her, assuming her already sleeping, then himself stretched out, drawing up his own blanket.
SAVE for the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of the horses, the night was still. No nocturnal birds sang, nor insects buzzed; there was no hint of predators ranging the darkness. The moon lay yet easterly, silvering drifts of cloud in a sky that spread like a great indigo canopy pricked through with the glitter of stars. It seemed that whatever magicks Ochen set about the camp dulled the sensation of watching eyes, for while he still felt a vague discomfort it was not enough to stave off the demands of weariness: he felt his eyes grow heavy, closing, slumber's embrace welcome.
And then he thought he woke, roused by some summons now echoed into silence. He looked about, and gasped, though when he did he heard no sound, but felt terror grip him, for he looked down on the still and silent form of a fair-haired man he knew to be himself, sleeping soundly. Cennaire lay beside that shape, Bracht and Katya side by side across the fire. He saw the sleeping kotu-zen, recognized Ochen and Chazali, the wazir stirring as if he felt that bodiless observation, the dark shapes of the guards, the horses. It seemed he rose, spectral, spirit and body separated, helpless, for though he willed a return to physical form, he continued to ascend, as if drawn up by some power beyond his understanding or comprehension. Desperately he struggled, and in his struggling saw—if sight was what he used—that he was formless, without material shape.
Panic threatened. He shouted Bracht's name, Katya's, Ochen's, but still no sound emerged and none save the wazir shifted, and that but restlessly, as might a man in dream's grip.
This, though, was no dream, and were it nightmare it was one he knew, instinctively, contained a horrible reality, drawing the essence of his being out from its fleshly shell. He thought then of Rhythamun, and had he possessed his body he would have shuddered, but all he could do was watch the forms of his comrades and allies recede as he rose, upward like a feather or a drift of smoke borne on the faint wind, toward the distant stars.
In moments they were only blurs, indistinct about the pinprick glow of the fires, those lost as the wind, or whatever force carried him, changed his direction, he flotsam on its breath, drifting northward. Or so it seemed, for he watched pass below the flatlands, breaking up into the corrugated terrain promised by Ochen. Fires shone there, distant among wooded hills and watered valleys, and he saw villages, tilled fields, the shapes of sleeping, pastured animals.
He moved faster, gathering speed all the time, the land below blurring, the stars above seeming to shift in their courses, trailing light like blown sparks. He saw a great fertile plain dominated by a massive hold he thought must surely be Pamur- teng, standing square, a vastly enlarged sister to the keep, all sparkling with the radiance of myriad lamplit windows, all lost, left behind as he traveled on.
More lights then, thousands, far below, tiny in the distance, and tents, horses, men: he guessed he looked upon an encamped army. And ahead lay another, greater, fires lit along both banks of a river that ran red with their light from a vast, moon- silvered lake. Lake Galil! And that hold beside the water, where the river ran out, must be Anwar- teng.
He drew closer, slowing as if contrary forces tugged in opposed directions, permitting him a clearer view.
More than campfires illumined the night, he saw, for from the great press about the hold, even from the surface of the lake, where shapes too dark to define floated, there came streamers of gold and crimson, incandescent, rising in sparkling, fiery arcs to crash against the walls of Anwar-teng, to descend beyond the ramparts, in explosions of searing brilliance. Almost, he thought to hear cries in the night, or feel the emotions of the folk below. It was as though tides battered him. Anger, fear, outrage, hatred, lust and hunger for what the city meant, what it represented; no less the determination of those within, solid purpose underscored with fear of defeat, rapine, and worse.
He felt his soul assaulted then, that terrible out- wash more than he thought he could bear, and struggled, as dreaming men do, to return himself to the normality of sleep. He could not, but briefly, like a promise shouted from afar, he glimpsed the sleeping shapes of Bracht and Katya, saw Cennaire, her hair spread raven-lit about her face, Ochen starting up from his blanket, pushing silver locks from a face that creased in a multiplicity of wrinkles, each one a beacon of concern.
Then, helpless, he was dragged onward, over a bleak wasteland of grey and silent stone like a sandless desert, toward the wall that bulked massy ahead, white-dressed, craggy and sharp as dragons' teeth. He knew that barrier for the Borrhun-maj, and knew with a dreadful certainty that some thing beyond it, past its physical limits, within the occult realm, called him, summoned him. Knew, too, that were his pneuma drawn there it might never return, that soul and body would be sundered, the one trapped, the other locked in eternal sleep until it should waste and die.
He fought the driving pressure of the psychic current and it was akin to swimming against a fearful tide. The night whispered that he should give in, that he could not resist, that he was weak, too weak to fight a power so much greater than his poor resources, and though he did his utmost, still it was as if his limbs grew lax, his muscles ached and screamed for res
pite, to drift and let the tide carry him, that he could do no more, only succumb.
He saw the mountains come closer, so high they melded with the sky, the sheen of snow and starlight, moonglow, become one, as if land and heavens coalesced in occult haar, the world ending, giving sway to another place. The fulgent misting shimmered, trembling and glittering with horrid appetite, and he knew in his soul that beyond it lay that limbo where Tharn resided; and that did he pierce that barrier, he should be forever lost, the quest damned, the Mad God free to await his resurrection.
He weakened, tugged onward, driven, and it seemed he heard laughter, confident and mocking, horribly triumphant. He recognized the sound—it was imprinted on his memory. He had heard it before, in Aldarin, when he and Katya had stood in the private chambers of Varent den Tarl and seen the contemptuous shape of Rhythamun appear from the discarded talisman that he, duped and all unwitting, had carried to Tezin-dar that the warlock might seize the Arcanum. Then—in the lost city and in Aldarin, both—he had felt a vast and righteous anger, a conviction wordless and beyond doubting that he had no choice, nor wanted any, save to oppose the chaos the Mad God would wreak on the world. Now that same anger gave him strength, enough he was able to fight the awful psychic current sweeping him toward the argen- tal barrier.
He fought. In the names of all the Younger Gods; in the name of humanity itself. And his progress toward the aethyric haar slowed a little.
But not enough. Still he was drawn and driven, a swimmer caught in the buffeting of occult tides, grown soul-weary beyond physical comprehension. Had he existed then on the mundane plane, his limbs should have been leaden, his lungs aching, his eyes red-weary, his muscles screaming protest and surrender. But he refused that: he fought on.
And still was washed ever closer to the curtain betwixt the worlds of men and dreaming gods. The silver shimmering pulsed, hungry. The laughter increased: a crescendo of victory. It numbed his ears, threatened to drain his waning strength.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 15