That doubt he put to Ochen, and more.
They sat, as had become their custom, a little way distant from the rest, cloaked against the cooling of the summer as the sky darkened and the fast- waning moon climbed above a range of low hills. Timber grew thick along the flanks, leaves that began already to assume the hues of autumn rustling in the wind that blew soft from the north, the wells that had daily marked their passage no longer needed, for little streams plashed down the ridges to striate the bottomlands with rivers. Chazali had increased the nightly watch against the possibility of tensai attack, and for a while each dusk the air grew pungent with the almond scent of Ochen's sortilege. On the morrow, so Calandryll understood, they would reach a village, a settlement of gettu, where there might be news of the war and the more immediate danger of predatory outlaws. For now he felt a different concern, outlining his doubts to the silver-haired mage.
"He can be slain," Ochen said. "Doubt that not, for no man is truly immortal, and some part of Rhythamun remains yet in this world. Were it otherwise, he should be a ghost."
"And yet surely he must have outlived his mortal span," Calandryll responded. "Is your—forgive me, for I intend no disrespect—concept of the afterlife correct, then has he not entered your Zajan-ma as each life terminates? And come back—escaped!— from there?"
"Likely so. Think you the Younger Gods are infallible?" Ochen accepted the suggestion without demur, chuckling. "Were that so, how should such as Rhythamun exist at all? Horul and his kin would surely order the world to their design, and none should ever threaten their dominance. But that is not the way of things—no, it seems to me the gods are bound by some order beyond their breaking; certainly beyond my understanding. Have you not said that Burash and Dera, both, spoke of a design past their changing? I suspect the Younger Gods need men as men need them,- that Yl and Kyta, or perhaps even a power beyond them, left behind a structure neither man nor god can alter."
"So?" Calandryll demanded.
"So Rhythamun has attained such knowledge as enables him to shake off the ties that bind other souls in Zajan-ma," said Ochen. "He is . . . How shall I put this?. . . a free spirit. He defies the bonds that govern our existence, defies the gods themselves. He returns from Zajan-ma not as a ghost, neither as a reborn soul sent by Horul, but as and by his own agency, escaping the judgment of mine or any other's god. And that is surely an abomination."
"On that," Calandryll said, "we agree. But still it's a metaphysical concern. I ask you again—shall steel prevail against him?"
Ochen thought a moment, then said: "I believe that did you put a blade in his fleshly form, then, aye, you would slay his stolen shape. That blade Dera blessed likely has the power to sever his hold and send his pneuma into the aethyr, where it would likely wander in limbo forever. Unless . . ."
He paused and Calandryll demanded, "Unless?"
"He has such power as could bring him back again," said Ochen.
"Dera!" Calandryll drove clenched fists against the wind, voice harsh and horrified. "You say he is truly immortal! That even be he slain, he will come back. That his threat is ever-present."
"Evil is an ever-present threat," Ochen responded. "But were he thus slain, then that part of him that lived on might be hunted down within the aethyr and destroyed. Do you not see? His strength is his weakness—he lusts for domination, for mortal power. Why else should he seek to raise the Mad God? Only because he looks to stand at Tharn's elbow, the god's temporal lieutenant. He loves life too much to leave it—why else prolong his existence? Only because he cannot let go his hold on this world of men.
"That is his weakness—that love of fleshly being. He is loath to quit this world; too loath, and were his pneuma sundered from his flesh, then he must surely be greatly weakened. Oh, aye, I know he counts his life by long ages, and must certainly be most difficult to destroy, but still it can be done."
"To achieve that victory, we must apprehend him before he has opportunity to use the gate in Anwar-teng," Calandryll said carefully, exploring the tenons of his doubt. "Or before he crosses the Borrhun-maj, no? Do I understand properly everything you have taught me, then to be certain of victory, we must take the Arcanum from him before he gains a portal to Tharn's limbo. And to take the Arcanum from him must surely mean slaying him."
"Aye," said Ochen, face bland and enigmatic in the pale light of the moon. "You put it well, and I think you understand your lessons."
Calandryll nodded brief acknowledgment and said, "And everything you teach me serves to protect me. Yet if the scryings I've heard are true, then three must face Rhythamun—Bracht and Katya must stand with me. How shall they be protected if we must go into that place beyond the Borrhun- maj?"
Ochen drew golden nails down through the strands of his mustache,- tugged a moment on the wisps of his beard. Then: "I do not know."
“You do not knowI”
The wazir shook his head; a slight, wary movement.
"Nor if they shall—can!—survive?"
Again that negative movement.
Calandryll stared aghast at his mentor. He was tempted to shout accusations, arguments,- he forced himself to calm, to reason, and when he spoke was pleased to hear his voice come even, disciplined.
"Surely, then, you must tutor them as you do me—afford them what defenses you can."
"Were that possible, think you I'd not?" the wazir asked. "I cannot, for they've not the talent. You alone command that power."
"Then I alone must do it," Calandryll said.
"I do not believe that is the way of it," Ochen returned. "A design exists beyond my comprehension and it binds you three to this duty. It may be broken, aye—you've but to turn about, go back ..."
Calandryll cut him off with an angry gesture. "No! That I'll not countenance; neither my comrades."
"Then you and they have little choice," said Ochen. "Have you?"
"You say they're doomed," Calandryll sighed.
"I say that if Rhythamun is to be defeated, if Tharn is to be denied resurrection," Ochen replied, ''then you, all three, must go on. Perhaps ..." He paused, chewing a moment on the tails of his mustache, thoughtful. "Perhaps even Cennaire must go with you."
"No!" Now Calandryll's voice rose loud in denial, forced quieter by effort of will as he continued: "She's no part in it, save she knows Rhythamun's new face. And save we find him ere he makes that crossing—which must surely render this debate redundant—then there can be no need that she attempt the aethyr."
Ochen's response was an enigmatic shrug, a further stroking of his beard. "What need was there she met you at all?" he asked.
"Chance," answered Calandryll. "Her misfortune."
"Think you so?" the wazir murmured. "Do you not think it a very great stretching of coincidence that in all the vastness of Cuan na'For she should have come to that single place where you and Rhythamun both came?"
It was the selfsame argument Calandryll had used: he shook his head, helplessly. "What else?" he asked, low-voiced, sensing defeat. "Say you she, too, is a part of this design?"
"I think it likely," said Ochen, and Calandryll felt a hesitation before the sorcerer added: "I suspect she's a part to play."
"Defenseless as the others?" The slight hesitation went forgotten. "Mortal and unwarded?"
Almost, Ochen said, "Hardly mortal," but his training was sufficient that he held back the retort, saying instead, "If it be ordained so, then aye."
"I say you no," Calandryll snapped. "I say she remains safe in Pamur-teng. Also that we put all this to Bracht and Katya—grant them the freedom of choice."
"I think you know their choice/7 Ochen smiled ruefully. "Such folk as those two will not give up. Even be it at price of their lives, their very souls, still they'll go on."
"Aye." Calandryll nodded reluctantly. "But Cennaire?"
"Should be allowed some say in her own destiny," said the wazir. "Let us put all this to them in the morning, and agree to bide by their decisions."
"D
era!" Calandryll shook his head. "I'd thought to nleet dangers, but not such as you promise."
"It may still be that we find Rhythamun in time," Ochen said gently, his words designed to reassure. "In mortal guise he can move no faster than mortal's pace. The body he possesses must eat still; sometimes rest. He needs horses still."
"We thought as much as we pursued him across Cuan na'For." Calandryll snorted a bitter laugh. "And he found ways to elude us—he's not the scruples of mortal men."
"Aye." The wazir's wrinkled face puckered, moonlit. "I've thought on that."
"To what conclusion?"
"That speed is of the essence," replied Ochen, "and that Chazali and his warriors must move slower than a small band."
"You say we should abandon the army?" Calandryll demanded.
"I think that the wiser course," said the wazir. "Chazali must travel with foot soldiers, a baggage train, while you and I—the others—may proceed faster do we go alone."
"Save Anwar-teng be fallen," Calandryll said.
"It has not yet." Ochen gestured at the night, as if at some entity beyond the star-pocked darkness. "Had it, the aethyr should ring loud with the event."
A horrible possibility descended on Calandryll, and almost, he offered no response. It seemed easier—at least less frightening—to let the thought pass unvoiced; and yet, he knew, he must examine every avenue, no matter how skeptical, how gloomy. "Which might yet happen," he said. "And if it does, then Rhythamun wins entry to the portal; while we shall surely be denied even access to the hold."
"In such event," said Ochen with such calm as was near irritating, "we shall likely all be slain by the rebels. Save I shall know, does that event occur, and we can avoid the hold—go on directly to the Borrhun-maj."
"Without the aid of the wazir-narimasu?" Calandryll had learned his lessons well: knew now how vital were the high sorcerers to the quest. "With Rhythamun passed through? No, surely does Anwar- teng fall, we've lost."
"Is that, as Bracht would likely say," asked Ochen, "good enough reason to admit defeat? I tell you, that while we live, and dare this venture, we've hope still."
"A commodity that seems fast-waning," muttered Calandryll.
"And therefore to be clutched the harder," said Ochen. "Horul, my friend, do we latch ourselves to every doubt that comes to mind, we'd as well surrender now. Would you take that course?"
"No." Calandryll grinned, resolution strengthened by the sorcerer's admonishment. "You know I'd not."
"Then we press on," said Ochen firmly. "Trusting in the Younger Gods to aid us."
"But still advise the others of what may lie ahead," said Calandryll. "And still I'd see Cennaire ensconced safe in Pamur-teng, for I'm not yet convinced she need go with us farther."
Ochen nodded, glancing a moment to where the woman lay, wondering if she listened, confident of her decision. He said, "On that matter we may well find some answer in Pamur-teng. There are gijans there—folk you'd name spaewives—who possess such talents as discern some measure of the future, and who may likely perceive the patterning of your destinies better than I. Do we consult one, and you abide by what she sees?"
Somewhat reluctantly, Calandryll murmured his agreement.
"Then," said Ochen, "let us take that course. And meanwhile, take each day as it comes. First, let us gain Pamur-teng, then onward to Anwar- teng. Beyond that . . .?"
"The gods, or destiny, or whatever spins out this web, shall decide," Calandryll allowed. "But— Dera!—I wish there were fewer strands to it."
Ochen chuckled. "Were men simpler creatures, and less prone to ambition, then it would be so," he said. "But they are not, and it is not; and we've no choice but to follow the strands."
Calandryll sighed, gesturing his acceptance, and the wazir began to speak again of occult matters, of meditations and mantras, the formulation of mental patterns and the abstruse language that opened the ways into the invisible world.
SLEEP was become a commodity short supplied and it seemed only moments since Calandryll's head had touched the hard pillow of his saddle that he was shaken awake, Ochen kneeling beside him, proffering a mug of steaming, scented tea. Dew decked the grass, the sun not yet risen, though the sky grew light in the east and the fires were fresh- stoked, the kotu-zen saddling their horses in preparation for speedy departure. Calandryll groaned, rubbing dew-moistened hands over sleep-foggy eyes, and took the mug. Ochen waited patiently as he drank, the sweet-flavored liquid helping to dispel the last vestiges of a slumber he had sooner continued.
"They await us," the wazir said. "But Chazali will not long delay."
For a moment, Calandryll did not understand, but then Ochen gestured to where Bracht and Katya, Cennaire, sat beside their fire, and the promises of the past night came back: he nodded and thrust off his blanket, weary head spinning an instant as he rose. He smoothed his rumpled clothes, belted on his sword, and went to take his place beside his comrades.
"This wizardry would seem hard work," Bracht remarked with ruthless good cheer. "Do you sleep at all now?"
More sympathetic, Katya piled a platter with hard bread, meat. Calandryll smiled his thanks, and she said, "There is some matter you'd discuss, so Ochen advises us."
Calandryll nodded, swallowed, and, with Ochen's help, outlined to them his concerns.
When he was done, Bracht shrugged and said, "Have we not for some while now assumed we might likely need to cross the Borrhun-maj? What changes?"
"I stand with Ochen on this," said Katya. "There's some design in what we do, and I see no reason to shift our course."
"You've not felt Tharn's presence as I did." Calandryll looked from one to the other. "Nor have you the gift of Ochen's teaching."
"We've spoken with gods," Katya returned calmly, "and walked roads unknown to men. I say I put my faith in the Younger Gods and, though I cannot comprehend it, this design. I say we go on."
"Aye." Bracht nodded, dew glinting on the jet of his hair, glancing briefly at his hands. "I thought to die when Jehenne nailed me to the tree, but I live still. I never thought to cross the Cuan na'Dru with the Gruagach for guides, but cross the forest we did. Must we, then, venture into some other unknown, so we shall."
Calandryll had anticipated no less, but still he liked it not, for it seemed to him they spoke— bravely—of a place beyond their understanding, of hazards beyond their comprehension. He sought arguments, but even as he searched, Bracht spoke again.
"We talk of future dangers," the Kern said, his pragmatism characteristic, "while we likely face more immediate hazards. Let us do as Ochen suggests—gain Pamur-teng and consult this gijan."
Calandryll sighed, his objections foundered on the rock of their resolution, and looked to Cennaire. "All prophecies have told of three," he said. "You should be safer in Pamur-teng."
Cennaire met his gaze with wide hazel eyes, aware that Ochen studied her as she replied, "Let the gijan decide. Does she bid me remain, then so be it; does she scry the three have become four, then I go with you."
And even does she bid me stay, she thought, still I must go with you. Or after you, clandestine; for one way or the other our destinies are joined, and do I allow you to go on without me Anomius will surely vent his anger on my heart.
She saw Ochen duck his head then, smiling a small and secret smile, as if he approved her response.
Aloud, the wazir said, "Then our course is set. As far as Pamur-teng, at least."
Calandryll shrugged acceptance, denied further opportunity to dissuade by Chazali's shouted orders, hurriedly finishing his breakfast as Bracht kicked the fire dead and all about, the kotu-zen readied for departure. It was difficult to be sorry they chose to face the unknown with him, for, were he honest with himself, he would sooner venture there with comrades such as these at his side than alone. To feel guilty was far easier, and he fell into a somewhat morose silence as he slung his saddle on the chestnut gelding and climbed astride.
More orders from the kiriwashen sent two me
n ahead of the main party, and as he fell into line, Calandryll called out to Ochen, asking the reason.
Mist, timber, and the slope they descended afforded the wazir time to answer: "We enter the tensai lands now. They scout the way."
Calandryll remembered the fires he had seen burning, likely in these same hills, as his pneuma had been drawn northward, thinking now they might well have been the camp lights of outlaw bands, and a thought came to him. "Why do you not travel the aethyr?" he wondered. "Would your spirit not prove a more reliable guide?"
Ochen's answer was delayed by a thickening of the trees, their mounts forced apart awhile. Then: "Have you not understood? To travel that plane, total concentration is needed. That journeying is done only when the body has nothing else to concern it. For now, I've sufficient to occupy me. Horul knows, I am but a poor horseman, and save I concentrate I shall likely fall off this awkward beast."
Calandryll might have felt chastened, had the wazir not grinned then, ruefully, and mouthed a foul curse as his animal faltered where the slope, emptying of trees, angled steeper, the grass slippery. Instead, he chuckled and cried, "Then I'll not burden you with more questions. Save one—might we not this night go out to seek the tensai camps?"
"We might not," returned Ochen, "for you are altogether too vulnerable and I'd not lead Rhythamun to you. Now, for Horul's sake, leave me be lest I come to grief and tumble down."
Before them, the mist rolled back, revealing a narrow expanse of valley, a river glittering blue- silver along its length, alders shining golden beside the water. Beyond, the slope was gentle, spread with maples and birch, conifers like sentinels along the ridgetop, black against the azure of the early morning sky. Chazali's scouts climbed the gradient, halting among the pines to wave the travelers on, and Calandryll urged the chestnut across the shallow water, heeling the gelding up the rise.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 17