The Kern frowned. "She names herself revenant, wizard. Do you tell me she lies?"
"No, only that she is made something other than human, but can yet retain those emotions humanity feels," Ochen replied, a hand raised to quell the outburst Bracht's face threatened. "And that Calandryll, in his own way, is more than just a man. You know there's a power in him, and you accept that. Might you perhaps accept that that power imbues him with a vision beyond the normal? That he might, through that power, perceive the truth in Cennaire?"
"He saw her not for what she is," Bracht returned, "but for what she seems."
"Perhaps." Ochen turned then to Cennaire and asked her bluntly: "Do you love Calandryll?"
Like the Kern before her, she hesitated, caught off balance by the question, unsure. Love was not an emotion with which she was familiar. What did it mean? That she was prepared to risk her existence that he should live? That she would have his approval; could scarcely bear the pain she felt radiating from him? That she would—had!—turned from Anomius's service for fear he be slain, uncaring of her own fate? That she could not properly understand what she felt for him, but knew his touch, his smile, excited her in ways she had never before known? If that was love, then aye: she ducked her head, silent, gaze still locked on the fire.
"The uwagi might well have destroyed her," Ochen continued. "She's great strength, but even so those creatures could have rent her limb from limb—Horul, you've witnessed their power!—but still she chose to face them. For Calandryll's sake."
"Or Anomius's," said Bracht, obstinate.
"Think you she's no feelings?" Ochen asked. "Think you she does not fear death?"
"How can she?" the Kern demanded. "When she's no life to lose."
"And is that better?" the wazir countered. "Aye, she might not have died, but still been sundered. Think on it—to be rent apart and live still? Anomius holds her beating heart within the aegis of his cantrips, and so she would not have died. Only been torn apart, to live on, suffering."
"What do you say?" asked Katya.
"That she was prepared to face a fate perhaps worse than honest death," said Ochen. "For Calandryll's sake."
Katya nodded thoughtfully,- Bracht frowned. Calandryll sat bemused, their words, their arguments, beating against ears numbed by revelation, an assault on the bewildered thoughts that filled his mind, racing, confused as the tumult of dreams.
Cennaire was revenant? Anomius's creation, sent to snatch the Arcanum? But he had held her, tasted her lips on his, and those lips had felt entirely human. Yet those same lips had voiced the truth of her making—and he could no more doubt that than he could doubt the now frightening realization that he loved her. It washed over him with a terrifying force, awful for all he heard, could not deny or doubt: he loved her. Not knowing he did it, he moaned, head lowered, lost in absolute confusion.
Ochen's voice came unwelcomed through the miasma of his thoughts: "Calandryll, did she not save you?"
"Aye," he said numbly. "She held me off from striking Rhythamun, when he stood in the uwagi's place. She carried me to safety, and she fought the beasts to save me."
Because she is a revenant; because she has that strength. The strength of the undead.
"And did she not bring you back to safety?"
"Aye, she did."
Because she survived where living beings could not. Because magic affects the living, not the dead.
"And yet, she could have fled, no? She might have gone into the forest. Followed us to Pamur- teng, to Anwar-teng, hidden from us, concealing what she is. But she did not—she chose to return, to bring you back."
"Aye."
Because she obeys her creator's commands? Because she is Anomius's creature? How can I love her, then!
"And do you love her?"
In his turn he hesitated. He wanted to deny it, wished that he might, and could not. Low-voiced, tonelessly, he said, "Aye."
He raised his eyes then,, helpless, hopeless, wondering what it made him, that he confessed his love of a woman dead, undead, creation of magic, and that the magic of a sorcerer sworn his enemy. He saw Bracht's face, unbelieving; Katya's, enigmatic, troubled; Ochen's calm, approving, he thought. Most of all he saw Cennaire's eyes shine hopeful. He nodded and said again, "Aye."
"This is madness," Bracht snarled. "You're entranced." .
"Perhaps he sees to the heart of it," said Ochen.
"The heart?" Bracht's clenched fist carved air, angry. "Her heart lies with Anomius."
"No!" Cennaire was encouraged by the helpless light she saw in Calandryll's eyes. The unmasked hostility she saw in Bracht firmed her somewhat: if they were to have the truth, then it should be all the truth. "My heart lies in that box he made, in Nhur-jabal. He travels with the Tyrant's sorcerers, warring against Sathoman ek'Hennem. He is confined by their cantrips, to the Tyrant's cause, and may not quit the host."
"Then why do you serve him?"
Katya's voice was deliberately calm, though she radiated a controlled tension, and -Cennaire could sense the loathing the warrior woman sought to conceal, the suspicion. She sighed and said, "Perhaps I no longer do. Revealed, I can be of little use to him. I think that does he learn you know me for what I am, then he will destroy me."
Calandryll moaned, "No," head lowered, rocking where he sat.
Katya nodded and demanded, "But until now— before we knew—you obeyed his commands. Yet you say your heart lies safe in Nhur-jabal, and I ask again: why?"
Cennaire raised her eyes to meet the impassive grey stare. Judgment lay there, and threat, but reason, too, a willingness to hear out the tale in full measure before verdict was reached. "I live by courtesy of his magic," she answered. "He's only to lay hands on the box to destroy me. And he boasts that soon he shall be freed of the gramaryes that bind him. That so, he might return to Nhur-jabal; or when the war ends."
"He boasts?" Bracht interrupted, harsh. "You commune with him?"
"He gave me a mirror," Cennaire advised him, "ensorcelled. Through it I am able to speak with him."
"Ahrd!" The Kern was on his feet in the instant, striding to where the horses stood, rummaging through her saddlebags until he found the cloth- wrapped glass. He returned to the fire clutching the package as though he held a serpent. "This?"
"Aye." Cennaire ducked her head as she sensed the disgust emanating from the man, mixed with a measure of fear. "But worry not—save I voice the cantrips he taught me it remains but a mirror. It can do you no harm, neither can he see us, or hear what we say."
"It is as she says," Ochen murmured. "No more than a glass until magic wakes it."
Bracht set the mirror down, his expression become speculative. He glanced from it to Ochen, to Cennaire. "And do I shatter it? What then?"
"Then likely Anomius will realize he's found out," said Ochen.
"And have no further way to know what we do, or where we go," said Bracht. A wolfish smile curved his mouth as he drew his dirk, reversing the long knife, the pommel poised to strike.
"Wait!" Ochen's hand rose, stilling the blow. His painted nails glittered golden in the fire's light, his eyes burned into the Kern's, and Bracht hesitated, frowning.
"Why? You name yourself our ally, yet you'd leave her the means to commune with her master?"
"Think on it," urged Ochen. "Does Anomius believe his emissary discovered, he's no further use for her. What then?"
He turned to Cennaire, a question framed in the wrinkles of his face. She shrugged and said, "I think he'd likely destroy me for such failure. He's an unforgiving master."
Bracht chuckled wickedly and raised the dirk anew.
Calandryll cried desperately, "No!"
"No?" Bracht stared, amazed. "You say 'no'? You'd give Anomius eyes?"
"Strike and he'll likely destroy Cennaire."
Calandryll closed his eyes, head flung back. Oh, Dera, what path do I tread? This is surely madness.
"Aye," said Bracht. "So?"
Calandryll opened his eyes
to face the Kern. It seemed a void opened inside him, a great, dark pit of pain and confusion, from which only one awful certainty emerged clear, all else chaos. He voiced it: "I love her."
Bracht's voice grew soft now, filled with horror, with disbelief. "How can you say you love her?"
"She saved my life," Calandryll muttered.
"For her own reasons!" Bracht bellowed, so loud the horses started behind them, whickering and stamping.
"I ..." Calandryll shook his head, rubbed sweat- damp palms over a chilled face. "I do not think it so. I do not believe it so . . . She might have died herself. She might have fled . . . left me . . . but she did not. She risked herself for me!"
He fell silent, aware of Bracht's disbelieving gaze, Katya's pitying stare. He could scarce bring himself to look at Cennaire.
"There are other reasons," Ochen said into the silence, placatory. "Do we set aside Calandryll's feelings, then still there seems to me sound cause to leave that glass intact. First, do you shatter it, Anomius will likely send some other minion, and we cannot know its face."
"It would need find us," Bracht said, the dirk still poised.
"Aye, and we've a head start," Ochen agreed calmly, "but magic's a way of eating the leagues, and we might well find ourselves pursued by some creature we cannot recognize. We've a saying in this land—better the known demon than the stranger. While if we leave the glass, and allow Cennaire communication with Anomius ..."
"Madness!" Bracht snapped.
"... Then we may deceive him," Ochen continued. "Mislead him and trick him."
"With his creature in tow?" grunted the Kern. "Free to commune with him, and advise him of all we do?"
"Hardly." The wazir shook his head, his tone become exasperated, as if the Kern's belligerent obstinacy tried his patience afresh. "Think you she can use the mirror without we know it? I'd sense such use, even if you failed to see it. No, what messages she might send Anomius shall be of our devising."
"Better we smash the mirror now," said Bracht, "and end this thing's miserable existence."
Ochen shrugged, as if the Kern's suggestion was taken under consideration. He turned to Katya: "Two opinions are voiced clear. Bracht would see Cennaire slain; Calandryll would have her live— how say you?"
For long moments the Vanu woman met the wazir's stare with silence, as if she sought answers in his narrow eyes, the lines that furrowed his face. Finally she said slowly, "I believe you our friend, old man, and yet you tell us you've known Cennaire for a revenant since the first. Therefore, I suspect you've some other reason. Do you tell it, and then I'll answer."
"Women were ever more sensible than men," Ochen murmured, smiling approval. "Aye, I'll tell it—I recognized her when I looked into all your pneumas, back there atop the Daggan Vhe. I saw the purpose in you three like honest fire burning in a dark night. In Cennaire I saw a murkier flame, confused, torn between those strictures laid on her by Anomius and that part of her, that anima, entirely her own. I saw a creature lost, affected even then by your company. It was as though the fire that burns in each of you scoured the darkness in her, cleansing. Also, I sensed she had a place in the design that governs us all. What, I cannot say— only that she becomes a member of your quest, and that I believe it must fail without her."
Katya nodded. Bracht said, "Three and three and three, wizard. Twice now spaewives have prophesied three. How so, if we become four?"
"That power the spaewives, the gijans, own is not mine," said Ochen. "Theirs is a different talent, but do I hazard a guess, I'd tell you that those scryers you consulted in Lysse and Kandahar spoke of what was then, when this woman had no part because she did not then exist."
"You weave a web of words and half-seen thoughts," the Kern retorted irritably.
"Surely the future is a riddle," Ochen replied.
"Did the spaewife in Secca warn Calandryll of Anomius? Did the spaewife in Kharasul tell you of Jehenne ni Larrhyn? Did you"—a hint of accusation, or mischief, entered his voice—"deem fit to warn your comrades of that woman's interest in you?" .
Bracht had the grace then to look embarrassed, and Ochen continued: "Cennaire was not then what she is now. The future is a many-branching road, each turning taken leading to another, all of it complex beyond ready understanding, easy discernment. And even when you spoke with spaewives, Tharn's dreaming clouded the occult plane, likely dimming their vision. I believe they could not see Cennaire's role then."
Katya, grave, asked, "So you tell us Cennaire's some part in our quest?"
"Have I not said it?" Ochen nodded. "I believe it so, but as we speak honestly now, I tell you I cannot be sure."
"How shall you—we—be sure?"
"She is now what she is," the wazir answered, "and fixed in that state while her heart lies ensorcelled in Nhur-jabal. Therefore a scrying may be had—I suggest we continue on to Pamur-teng and consult a gijan there."
"Save you influence her prophecy," said Bracht, doubtful.
"That, even the wazir-narimasu cannot do." Ochen laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, warrior, had I the time I'd explain it to you; though I wonder if you could understand."
"Therefore I must trust you?"
"What other choice have you?" asked Ochen, sharp again. "Think you truly that I league with those madmen who'd own the Arcanum, see the Mad God raised?"
"I do not," said Katya, and turned toward the Kern. "Put up your dirk, Bracht—what Ochen says makes sense."
For a while the Kern met her gaze, then he grunted, and sheathed the dagger. "And this?" He gestured at the wrapped mirror. "What do we do with it?" ,
Cennaire spoke then, hope rising inside her: "Why do you not hold it?"
Bracht shook his head. "Not I. I'd have nothing to do with Anomius's creations."
"Give it to me, then," Katya suggested, and smiled. "Save you no longer trust me."
"Take it." Bracht tossed her the small bundle. "You I trust. But ..."
His eyes encompassed Cennaire and Ochen. Katya tucked the mirror beneath her hauberk and turned toward the revenant. "Do you prove our enemy," she said, "I shall break this thing. And be it in my power, I shall slay you."
Cennaire ducked her head in acknowledgment. It seemed a weight was lifted from her, for all Calandryll still refused to meet her eyes, though when she spoke, her words were directed at him.
"I'll not betray you," she said. "I've learned from you, and be it in my power I'll aid you all I can, even does Anomius destroy me for it. I'd own my heart again, be that possible. You need not trust me, but I tell you that I'll not betray you. You've my word on that."
"Your word?"
Bracth's voice cut bitter into her burgeoning hope and she looked to Calandryll for some measure of support, but he was sunk in gloom, staring at the ground between his feet, and that cut deeper still.
11
OCHEN left them then, called to the funeral pyres by Chazali, that he might perform the rituals for the dead. The wazir's absense afforded the questers a chance to talk among themselves that was entirely unwelcome to Calandryll, who felt his mind, his soul, benumbed by what he had learned. He had sooner be left alone, or talk more with the sorcerer, seeking resolution of the bewilderment, the confusion, raging inside him. That he loved Cennaire, he could not deny: it was a fact that burned through all the chaos of surrounding knowledge. What repercussions it might have, he dared not contemplate, nor knew what that love made of him. A monster? A necrophile? Surely Ochen had said she wore flesh, that red blood coursed her veins, that she was capable of human feelings,- and yet that blood was pulsed by Anomius's magic, the bones and muscles beneath that flesh imbued with a terrible strength. Her lips had tasted soft when he kissed her; but was that softness the product of sorcery? She had promised her aid, even at risk of her creator's wrath, at risk of her own destruction; but could that promise be trusted? Bracht had suggested he was entranced— could that be true? Was he deceived by the woman? Did magic beguile his heart, just as it did hers? He felt despond
ency settle on him, bleak and grey as the spell Rhythamun had left behind in the keep, robbing him of purpose, leeching resolution. Into his mind came memories of tracts read in Secca, dissertations found in the palace libraries, of vampires, the ungodly allure they exercised on the living.
Was he thus seduced? Was there some weakness, some darkness, in him that was drawn to Cennaire? Reluctantly, he looked toward her—and found he saw only a beautiful woman, the great brown eyes that met his grave, perhaps even afraid. But of what? Certainly not of his blade, for she had touched that and the power in it had left her unharmed. Of Ochen's magic, then, should he call upon the wazir to destroy her? But he had already spoken against that, in her defense. Yet still she was subdued, almost timid, he thought, and in that moment she seemed to him only a woman, born down, afraid, and he wished that he could smile and reassure her.
He could not, then, only turn his face away, helpless, starting as Bracht said, "Do we speak? Alone?"
Unthinking, he gestured around, at the kotu-zen grouped about the pyres, chanting their responses to Ochen's prayers, and said, "We are alone."
"Aye?"
Bracht's eyes hung cold and blue on Cennaire, and she ducked her head, rose, and said quietly, "I'll not intrude."
She smoothed her dirtied leathers and walked a distance off, solitary, head hung. Bracht watched her go, then rose himself, beckoning Calandryll and Katya to follow him, walking to where the horses cropped grass, the stallion snickering a greeting, tossing its head as the Kern stroked the glossy neck.
Soft, glancing to where Cennaire stood, he asked, "Think you she can hear us?"
"She's eyes that cut the night," said Katya. "Likely she's ears to match."
"What matter?" asked Calandryll dully. "Katya holds the mirror, Ochen stands close—what if she does overhear?"
"She'll know our every move," the Kern replied. "Nor I am yet convinced we can trust the sorcerer."
"Dera!" Calandryll sighed, weary. "As he said— what other choice have we?"
"That's what I'd discuss," said Bracht. "I like this situation not at all."
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