Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  It was an enigma, a mandala, twisting about itself so that each possibility, every consideration, returned to the starting point: that whichever course she chose, she must stand revealed as reve- nant.

  There seemed, in it all, only the one sure fact— that she must return Calandryll to safety and reach whatever decision she must make after she knew him secure.

  As chance had it, or fate, or whatever design wove their destinies, the decision was taken from her.

  THE night descended into the absolute absence of light that precedes dawn. The forest was utterly still. Then the sky was filled with grey opalescence, birds began to chorus, announcing the ascension of the sun, and the blank etiolation was transformed. The heavens paled, grey replaced with soft pink, brightening to silvery gold, hints of azure. Cennaire heard the searchers long before Calandryll, and thought again of leaving him. Dismissed the thought as she felt his weight against her, and went on, toward the sounds. She felt suddenly very weary, leeched of judgment, indecisive, even careless of her fate. What came would come: she would see Calandryll safe, and that would be enough.

  Suddenly, bright as the radiance that filled the sky, she experienced a kind of freedom. She thought no longer of herself, but only of him. She smiled and asked, "Do you hear? We come to the road. To safety."

  Calandryll frowned, head cocked, listening, then nodded and grinned: "Aye, I hear them now."

  Then figures came through the trees, Bracht and Katya, Ochen, Chazali, kotu-zen. Cennaire called, "Here," and she was surrounded, passing her limping burden to the Kern and the kiriwashen, the wazir and the warrior woman either side of her, questions clammering until she shook her head and trod wearily toward the road.

  Pyres burned there, consuming the slain, the survivors of the battle moving farther off, upwind, to where more welcoming fires blazed, giving off the smell of roasting meat and tea. Ochen caught Cennaire's eye and smiled wanly, she answering in kind, helplessly, allowing herself to be carried along, seeing Calandryll settled on a spread blanket, against a saddle, Ochen kneeling to massage his damaged leg, murmuring softly, his sorcery healing.

  Katya said, "We feared you slain," her grey eyes wondering.

  Bracht looked up from over Ochen's shoulder and said, "What happened? Where were you?"

  Calandryll said, "She saved me. Dera, but had she not come ..." and then halted, staring, puzzled, at the Kand woman, dawn's early light, the company of comrades, reawakening all the questions the night and relief at living still had stifled.

  Ochen said, "Do we take tea, and s,peak? I think the time has come that certain truths be told."

  Cennaire glanced round, thinking that she might, even now, flee. Might burst through the ring of curious watchers and escape into the woods. She had fought with uwagi, had lived through occult assault—these mere men could hardly withstand her. Then she met Ochen's gaze, and saw a question in his narrow eyes, and a measure of hope, and she shrugged, filled with careless exhaustion, a lassitude that leeched her of purpose, leaving behind only a numb fatalism, and nodded, seating herself.

  Calandryll, looking hard into her eyes, said, "Had Cennaire not come, I should be dead now. Rhythamun set his snares well, and without her aid, he'd have slain me."

  His voice was firm, but she saw a question in his eyes and wondered if he did not dredge that authority from a sense of loyalty, from the attraction she sensed he held. She was flattered, smiling her gratitude, albeit wanly, but still felt careless of her fate, in a manner she did not properly understand grateful that it was now taken out of her hands.

  "How so?" asked Bracht. "Her?"

  "Aye," Calandryll said. "I owe Cennaire my life."

  "Ochen sent his magic to your aid," Katya said, "augmented by the wazir-narimasu. Do you tell us what happened?"'

  Cennaire sat waiting, irresolute, committed now to revelation, starting when Calandryll reached out to take her hand, answering his smile with hopeless determination, then turning toward Ochen, saying, "Aye, tell it."

  "They seized me," said Calandryll, "on Rhythamun's instruction, and took me into the forest ..."

  Cennaire listened as he told the tale, her eyes on his face, aware of the gasps that escaped the others, surprised, all save Ochen, who took up the story:

  "I found the wazir-narimasu as I hoped I should, and we brought our power into the aethyr, joined and channeled. Rhythamun's trap was triple set— that the uwagi might slay Calandryll; or he destroy himself by slaying them; or Rhythamun slay him. All that in the physical plane; far worse that Rhythamun leech out his animus, entrap his pneuma in the realms of the aethyr. It was a design of diabolic cunning, and without Cennaire it should have succeeded. She it was saved Calandryll where I, and the wazir-narimasu, should have failed. Without her, Calandryll would now be dead, and his soul ensnared by the warlock, by Tharn. Had she not intervened, your quest would be doomed to failure. What hope remains, you owe to her."

  "How," asked Bracht, studying the Kand woman with confusion in his blue eyes, "did she survive that destruction? You say you placed a protection about Calandryll; but she stood alone when your magic struck."

  "And how," Katya asked, softer, the beginnings of suspicion in her voice, "did she find Calandryll? You told us pursuit was useless. That we might do nothing, save trust in you and her."

  "Aye, so I did," Ochen returned.

  "And that magic that destroys the uwagi destroys the living with it," Bracht said. "So how does Cennaire survive?"

  "Dera, she saved me!" Calandryll said, defensive, not liking the direction these questions took. "Does the how of it matter? The why of it? She saved me—I owe her my life! Without her I should be slain now, or worse."

  Cennaire felt his fingers clutch tighter on her hand, and smiled thanks for his trust. Their eyes met, a hope, a warning, in his that she chose to ignore as she shook her head and said, "Ochen knows how I survived." Then she sighed and asked, "So, wazir, do you tell it, or I?"

  Ochen fetched the kettle from the fire, filled cups with tea, and passed them round, his wrinkled face creased deeper as he pondered. When all, waiting, bewildered and impatient, had accepted, he said, "First, understand that I have known since you came into this land what you are, all of you. That is why I league with you—that Rhythamun shall be defeated, that Tharn be not raised, the Arcanum destroyed. I saw in each of your souls the measure of your spirit, the hope and the purpose in you. Those things that cannot be concealed from one who views the aethyr ..."

  "Riddles," Bracht grunted. "Speak plain, Ochen."

  The wazir nodded, hesitating. Cennaire extracted her hand from Calandryll's grip, no longer able to wait, wanting only that all be laid open so that she know, for better or for worse, how they—how he!— might view her when the truth was told.

  "I am magic's creation," she said quietly. "Anomius made me."

  “Anomius!” The falchion was suddenly in Bracht's hand, leveled on her heart as the Kern sprang upright. "You're his creature?"

  "Bracht!" Calandryll moved to push the blade aside. "For Dera's sake! For Ahrd's sake! She saved my life."

  The Kern shifted balance, away from Calandryll's grasp, the sword still angled at Cennaire's breast. Katya glanced briefly at Ochen and motioned Bracht to wait, though Cennaire saw her own right hand drop to her saber's hilt.

  "He made me what I am," she said, her smile become cynical, her eyes fixed on the falchion's point, uncaring. "He took me from the dungeons of Nhur-jabal and cut out my heart."

  "We thought him dead," Calandryll murmured softly, looking from Cennaire to Bracht, to Katya and Ochen. Pain lay in his eyes, a rejection of her statement.

  "He lives," said Cennaire. "Oh, aye! He lives, and would have the Arcanum for his own. He'd slay Rhythamun for that prize. And all of you, save he believes you shall lead him to the book."

  "With you as guide!" Bracht's blade pressed against her jerkin. "I wondered how you came to join us."

  "She saved my life," Calandryll repeated helplessly.
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  The note of sadness in his voice grieved Cennaire. She lowered her eyes to the blade: no threat to her, to what she was, but she could no longer face Calandryll.

  "He took my heart and placed it in a box he bound with his gramaryes," she said, gaze locked on the falchion. "I knew not he should do that; nor what he should ask of me. Only that he gave me powers undreamt."

  "And made you his creature!"

  The falchion cut leather as Bracht drove the sword forward. And gasped as Ochen reached out, taking the blade casually as if it were a twig, the age-mottled hand closing around the razor edges, turning the sword. The scent of almonds joined the fire's smoke,- tendons corded along the Kern's arm as he fought the magic that held back his blow. Ochen said, "You cannot defeat such magic, Bracht. Neither mine nor what Anomius has put in her. Sheathe your sword and let us talk like civilized folk, eh?"

  "Civilized?" For a while Bracht strained against the wazir's grip, then gave up the unequal struggle and sheathed his blade, anger stark in his blue eyes. "Civilized, you say? That we should listen to this . . . thing . . . this revenant? I say use your magic to destroy her now. Ere she follow her creator's commands and take the Arcanum for him."

  "I say you should listen," Ochen returned. "All of you."

  Bracht raised his arms, spread wide in frustration. "Ahrd, wizard! Whose side do you take?" he cried. "Hers? Anomius's? She condemns herself— use your magicks to end her threat!"

  "Did I believe her a threat, do you not think I'd have done that?" Ochen demanded. "I knew her from the first."

  "And kept her secret?" Bracht spun round, eyes finding Katya's face, Calandryll's. "I say we fall among traitors—that this sorcerer works his own design, and forfeits our trust."

  Calandryll, torn by doubts, bewildered, said, "Do we hear him out, Bracht? I cannot believe him a traitor." And softer, with a hopeless glance at Cennaire, "Or her. She held my blade without harm ..."

  The Kern looked to Katya for support, and she shrugged, her grey eyes clouded, stormy with doubt.

  Ochen said, somewhat irritably now, as if the Kern's hostility drove his patience to its limits, "As Calandryll has told you—she saved his life at risk of her own."

  "That he should live to bring her to the Arcanum!" Bracht retorted. "That we three should live to find the book—that she might deliver it to Anomius. For what other reason?"

  "Sit down," Ochen said, "and perhaps you shall hear some other reasons. Listen"—as the Kern shook his head, glaring furiously from wazir to Cennaire, to Calandryll and Katya, encompassing them in his outrage, as if their lack of immediate support branded them, too, with the marks of treachery—"do you hear me out, or must I force you?"

  Bracht glowered at the ancient. Katya said, "Sit down, Bracht. Ochen is our friend, I believe, and you should hear him out."

  The Kern grunted and sat down, tension in the set of shoulders, disbelief writ clear on his face.

  "So, first"—Ochen retrieved dropped cups, fastidiously wiping them, setting them orderly aside—"do you truly believe I am your enemy?"

  "You hid her secret," Bracht snarled, his angry eyes accusing. "Perhaps you'd have the Arcanum for your own."

  Ochen sighed. Katya said slowly, choosing her words with care, "He's offered us only aid, Bracht. Had he not intervened, Rhythamun should surely have entrapped Calandryll within the aethyr. That first time and again now. No less, he could have ordered us slain."

  "Save we are destined to find the Arcanum," the Kern snapped back, refusing to be mollified, "and so he needs us. As does Anomius.,/ He turned his face, hard and cold, toward Cennaire. "What orders did he give you, your maker?"

  Cennaire flinched beneath that cold contempt. She gave her preternatural senses full rein now— what reason to hide them any longer?—and it seemed the cold morning air crackled with myriad emotions. From Bracht came hostility, an anger bordering on blood lust. In Katya she sensed suspicion mingled with doubt, a wariness, a desire for reason, a willingness to listen. Calandryll was shocked, dismayed, torn between outrage and dejection, bewildered. Ochen was closed to her, save in his calm determination that the discourse continue.

  Staring at the fire's flames, she said, "He commanded me to find you. His first intention was that I should slay you, but then he learned of the Arcanum—what it is, the power it holds—and then he told me to bring it to him. To leave you live until the book was found."

  "Anomius believed we sought a grimoire." Calandryll spoke, his voice hoarse, the eyes he fixed on Cennaire's face hollow. "How did he learn otherwise?"

  Cennaire paused, then shrugged—the path she trod now was irrevocable, there was no turning back—and said, "At first, he did not know. From Menelian, in Vishat'yi, I found you had sailed for Aldarin."

  "From Menelian?" Bracht fixed her with a hateful glare. "Menelian aided us. He'd not have betrayed us, save . . . Does he live still?"

  Cennaire shook her head. "He looked to slay me with his magicks. I fought for my life ..."

  She held her eyes firm on the fire, not wanting to see their faces, loath to meet Calandryll's gaze, hearing his gasp of horror.

  "You killed him." Bracht's voice was harsh, condemning. "On your master's orders, you slew him."

  "I ..." She shook her head again, filled with a terrible regret. "I had no choice. He allowed me none ... It was my life or his."

  "Your life7." Bracht snorted bitter laughter.

  "And then?" asked Katya.

  "Anomius dispatched me to Lysse, where I picked up your trail. I learned you sought the Arcanum from two Kerns, Gart and Kythan ..."

  "Whom you doubtless also slew," Bracht grunted.

  "No." Cennaire gestured a negative. "They were honorable men. I tricked it from them and left them living."

  "Are we to believe that?" the Kern demanded.

  "Why should she deny it?" asked Katya. "Already she admits to Menelian's murder—why should she halt with Gart and Kythan?"

  Bracht sighed and shook his head. Katya said, "How did you find us?"

  "Anomius guessed you must move toward the Borrhun-maj," answered Cennaire, dull-voiced. "He sent me to the Kess Imbrun, to the Daggan Vhe, to await you there. Along the way I saw bones—human—and the marks of riders. I came to the chasm and saw Rhythamun ..." She shuddered at the memory. "The rest you know—it was as I told you."

  "Save there were no tensai attacked your caravan," said Bracht, "for there was no caravan. Only you, going about your creator's business. So shall we believe you truly saw Rhythamun?"

  "I did!" she declared. "Aye, there was no caravan, but the rest... I saw him feast on human flesh and possess the Jesseryte. All that is true, I swear."

  "Doubtless by all the gods' names," Bracht muttered, and turned to Katya. "Do you believe this farrago?"

  The Vanu woman looked long at Cennaire, her eyes appraising, then she said, "I believe she saw Rhythamun take Jesseryte form. I believe she slew Menelian, but left Gart and Kythan alive. Beyond that..." She opened her hands in a gesture of wonderment. "Whether she leagues with Anomius, to take the Arcanum, I cannot say. Save she did aid Calandryll against the uwagi."

  "That he might continue the quest!" Bracht shouted. "Obeying her master's commands. For what other reason?"

  "I am not sure," Katya replied. "Perhaps Ochen might answer better than I. Or Cennaire herself."

  "If we may trust him still," Bracht muttered. "She I trust not at all."

  The wazir nodded solemnly, narrow eyes moving from one face to the other. "You've cause enough for doubt," he agreed, "and in face of all you've learned I can ask only your indulgence. I do not seek the Arcanum—no sane man would, save to destroy it—and all I wish is that you succeed. So, how shall I convince you?"

  "You might start by telling us why you hid your knowledge of this creature," Bracht said.

  "Because I sensed in her a changing," Ochen returned, "a shifting of the patterns that bind all our destinies. Her allegiance shifted from contact with you, and I believed—I bel
ieve still—she has a part to play in the design."

  "Ahrd!" Bracht grumbled. "We hear more sorcerer's riddles."

  "Think you so?" asked Ochen. "Listen, warrior— have you not told me of your first encounter with Katya? How you believed her an enemy? Did your feelings not change, later?"

  "The spaewife in Kharasul found her true," said Bracht, "and she proved herself, in Gessyth."

  "But was there not also something else?" Ochen asked, his tawny eyes probing the Kern's face. "Something in you, beyond doubting?"

  "What mean you?" Bracht demanded.

  "That you loved her," said Ochen. "That in your heart, from the first, you saw her true."

  Bracht's eyes hooded then, and he shrugged, hesitating before he admitted, "Aye, I love her. But what's that to do with this creature? Katya's a woman of flesh and blood, not ..." He gestured dismissively.

  "Think you that's not flesh covers her bones?" The wazir indicated Cennaire. "Blood runs in her veins, red as Katya's."