Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  Nor I, Calandryll thought. I’d far sooner Cennaire were just a woman, not magic’s creation. Dera, but I wonder if I'd rather we’d never found her. Or I not love her. But I do, and I think I cannot change that, be it for worse or better. Aloud, he asked, "What would you do about it?"

  "We might quit their company," Bracht said.

  "And lose ourselves in this unknown land?" Katya shook her head. "Ochen's yet my trust, and I believe he told it true when he spoke of war raging here. How should we gain entrance to Anwar- teng, save in his company?"

  "And there's the gijan," said Calandryll. "Do we consult her when we reach Pamur-teng, then perhaps our doubts may be resolved."

  "If we can trust her," Bracht countered. "Cennaire's Anomius's creature. Made what she is by him, and he's surely our enemy. And Ochen knew that, and concealed his knowledge."

  Calandryll nodded, struggling to rise above the despondency that gripped him. "How should we have reacted," he demanded, "had Ochen told us what he knew?"

  Bracht frowned, a hand fastened on the falchion's hilt. Katya said, "We'd surely have left her behind. Or looked to slay her."

  "Better we had," the Kern muttered.

  "Ochen believes she's a role in this quest." Calandryll shrugged. "And whatever her reasons, she did save me."

  "Ahrd!" Bracht's hand left the falchion to shape an angry fist. At his back, the stallion snorted, nostrils flaring. "We've talked that through—she obeyed her master. No more than that!"

  Calandryll felt a pressure on his shoulder and turned to find the chestnut gelding nuzzling at his hair. The animal's placid affection was somehow comforting, and he rubbed absently at the velvet muzzle, saying, "Perhaps,- perhaps not. I know only I was mightily glad of what she did. Perhaps she did act out of"—he paused—"love."

  "How can a thing without a heart feel love?" Bracht grunted.

  "Ochen said she yet has feelings," said Katya. "And even did she act on Anomius's orders when she went to Calandryll's aid she might have fled, after. Think on it, Bracht—whichever course she took, she must have known she should be revealed."

  "You say you trust her?" asked the Kern.

  "I say I am not sure," returned the Vanu woman. "Ochen, aye. Him I trust, and he believes she's a part to play—so I cannot but wonder if he be right, and Cennaire becomes a player in this design."

  Bracht shook his head in helpless frustration. "I say we can trust none of them," he declared.

  "And you'd ride out alone?" Katya asked. "We three, across all these Jesseryte lands? With warring armies in our path? I think we'd not last long."

  "And be my doubts sound?" Bracht fixed her with an angry stare. "How long shall we last then?"

  Katya offered no immediate answer. Instead, she turned to Calandryll. "How say you?" she wondered.

  He shrugged, wishing himself elsewhere, in some safe place, away from dubiety, from decisions and choices,- knowing even as the thought formed that such refuge was denied him.

  "I think," he said slowly, painfully assembling thoughts that raced and fluttered like light- bewildered moths, "that we cannot succeed without Ochen, without the kotu-zen. I know that Ochen's magic joined Cennaire to save me from the uwagi—from Rhythamun—and that otherwise I should be dead. I see no choice save to go on in their company."

  "Do you trust Ochen?" Bracht asked.

  Calandryll thought a moment longer, then nodded: "Aye. And listen—even be your doubts true, surely he'll look to see us safe along the way. Save you doubt everything we've done, we are the three scried. Save the spaewives and the Younger Gods themselves deceived us, we are the three. Therefore, even does Ochen work some subtle betrayal beyond my comprehension—beyond my belief!—he must still seek to deliver us safe to our destination."

  Doubt lingered in the Kern's eyes: Katya said, "This is logic, Bracht; irrefutable. Like Calandryll, I've faith in Ochen, but even were he treacherous, he must aid us. Just as Anomius would have us deliver the Arcanum, so should Ochen."

  Bracht studied them both awhile, a hand tangling absently in the stallion's mane, then ducked his head. "So be it," he allowed. "There's sense in what you say, and so I'll trust him for the nonce."

  "And Cennaire?" asked Calandryll.

  "Her not at all," answered the Kern. "And I tell you—does she turn against us, I'll take that sword from you and trust in Dera's blessing to destroy her."

  Calandryll looked into the cold hardness of the Kern's eyes and lowered his head; brief, a sad acknowledgment. "You'll find no need," he said hoarsely. "Be she traitor, I'll look to slay her myself."

  Doubt flickered in the steel of Bracht's gaze, but Katya motioned him to silence and set a hand, comforting, on Calandryll's arm. "The gods willing, there'll be no need."

  Her voice was soft and he looked into her grey eyes and smiled wan thanks for the commiseration he saw there, aware the while that behind that sympathy lay a determination firm as Bracht's. Should the time come, his would be the last hand turned against Cennaire: his comrades, unhindered by gentle emotions, would not hesitate. He nodded in mute understanding.

  "This shall not be a pleasant ride, I think," he murmured.

  Bracht grunted tacit agreement. Katya said, "Let us hope it may be swift. Perhaps, in Pamur-teng, our doubts shall be resolved."

  Aye, perhaps yours shall, Calandryll thought. But mine? Does the gijan assure you of Cennaire's integrity, then you may rest easier in her company.

  But met How can I rest easy knowing I love a woman undeactt

  He turned away before Katya's obvious compassion grew hurtful, going back to the fire, where he filled a cup with tea, listless, wanting some occupation of his hands; wishing his mind might be similarly occupied. Dera, but the journey would be unendurable while these doubts circled, like vultures awaiting the final weakening of a stricken beast.

  He gasped as sudden pain exploded in his hand, looking down to see the cup shattered, droplets of blood oozing from between his tight-clenched fingers. He opened his fist, shards falling, and began to pick the china splinters from his palm.

  "Here, let me."

  He turned to find Cennaire at his side, taking his injured hand as she spoke, her fingers delicate, precise, as they plucked the jagged fragments loose. For an instant he was prompted to snatch his hand away, but she glanced up then, and in her eyes he saw a plea for understanding and stilled the impulse. She smiled briefly and bent to her task, so that the rising sun struck sparks of raven brilliance from her hair and he smelled the scent of it, pine and woodsmoke mingled, and felt himself dizzied with confusion.

  He sat immobile, benumbed, leaving her to perform her surgery, seeing Bracht and Katya come up and halt, staring. The Kern's eyes were filled with disgust, as if he watched a victim go willing to a vampire's caress. Katya's were clouded, enigmatic. She spoke softly to Bracht, her mouth close to his ear, and they moved past, to stand closer to the kotu-zen. Calandryll felt a soft pressure, a warmth against his palm, and looked down to find Cennaire sucking at his wounds.

  That, for all his reaction ashamed him, was too much: he snatched his hand away, as if from a flame.

  Cennaire wiped blood from her lips, her expression apologetic. "It's clean," she said hesitantly, and smiled sadly, "and I'll not contaminate you."

  "I did not think ..." His voice faltered, he shook his head, helpless. "Forgive me."

  "How should I forgive you?" she murmured. "Should it not be I who ask that?"

  "I do not know." He sighed and shook his head again, meeting her gaze. Dera, but those were eyes to drown in! "I am not sure what I know any longer."

  Only that I love you.

  He took refuge in formality, retreating behind the punctilios learned in his father's court. Carefully, rigidly, he said, "Lady, I take you at your word. I owe you my life, and you've my thanks for that, but until we reach Pamur-teng and consult the gijan there ... I trust you understand."

  Cennaire's gaze fell away as she answered, "Aye. It were foolish of me to expect
else."

  Save how can you not know? Burash, but I have never felt like this before. Can you not feel thatt

  She rose, pausing as she heard his voice, soft: "Cennaire? I pray it be as you say."

  She found his eyes on her face, hopeful, frightened, and answered solemnly: "As do I, Calandryll."

  He nodded, and for all his expression was forlorn, she felt hope rise, like a kindled fire.

  THE morning was advanced as they rode out, the sun topping the surrounding forest to shine bright from a sky all cloud-streamered blue, the breeze that gusted from the north hinting at the year's aging. It skirled the smoke rising from the funeral pyres, drawing out the black in long pennants of mourning that drifted away over the trees like waning hope.

  Calandryll rode deep in thought, and it seemed the omnipresent sense of dread he had felt before grew stronger, as if the drumming of the hooves became a threnody, the freshened breeze assumed a charnel taint, whispering of loss, of defeat and futility. He looked up, and it seemed the sky was livid with threat of storm, the clouds lamenting, the blue fouled with blood. The trees beside the road stood ominous, looming dark; bird song died, lost under the rattle of the breeze,- the air became filled with the stench of dung and death. He groaned, his soul weighed down, and into his bedeviled mind came, subtle as a serpent, the thought that Tharn must surely win resurrection, that Rhythamun must doubtless ride too far ahead to halt, and cross into the Mad God's limbo, to use the Arcanum to raise his master.

  He felt himself sinking into despair, megrims tugging at him, loosening soul from the confines of his body.

  Does love do this! he wondered. Does what I feel for Cennaire bring me so lowi

  Almost, as the wind rustled an affirmative, he answered himself yes and gave up, let go to the awful despondency,- almost, he felt his pneuma drawn out again, trawled by the despondent breeze. But somewhere deep a flame yet burned, hopeful, and he shook his head and told himself no, not until she be proven false. Until then she's the right to my trust. He remembered the cantrips of protection Ochen had taught him then, and mouthed them, and felt the shield of honest magic rise around him, denying the horrid suction of despair. He recognized then, as the sky became again blue and clear and the breeze clean, that he was assaulted on the occult plane, that Rhythamun, or Tharn, once more sought to suck out his pneuma, to lure him into the realm of the aethyr and trap him there. He smiled as the pressure eased and was gone, feeling freed, and suddenly triumphant: a small victory won.

  He loved Cennaire. Aye, he loved her! That he could not deny. But that love he would not allow to endanger the quest. Paramount was the securing of the Arcanum, its delivery to Vanu that the holy men might destroy the book. Did Cennaire have a hand to play in that, then good; if not . . . He pushed the thought aside, praying that in Pamur-teng she be proven true and all doubts resolved. Bracht would learn to trust her, and they— all of them—go on to thwart Rhythamun's fell design. Until that was done he would set his feelings aside, that they not endanger the higher purpose.

  Aye! He laughed, throwing back his head, drinking in the now-clean air, wrapping himself round with the defensive gramarye, challenging Rhythamun, challenging the Mad God himself, to defy that purpose.

  It seemed that the wind snarled a moment then, disappointed, but when he cocked his head, listening, it was once more only a rustling among the pines. The birds sang again, squirrels chattered, and from the undergrowth ahead a wild sow burst, followed by three plump yearling hogs as she scampered, snorting irritably, across the road.

  The warriors to either side turned toward him and he smiled at them, confident in his newfound resolution.

  IT was easier found than held as they journeyed on, for when they halted, at noonday and at dusk, he was forced into company with his comrades and Cennaire, and the divisions imposed by knowledge of her revenancy came to the fore.

  It was easy enough to promise himself that he would set aside his feelings, defer judgments and decisions until they reached Pamur-teng; far harder to attain that objectivity as twilight shaded the road and he saw Cennaire dismount and hesitate, clearly unsure of her reception. Bracht ignored her with a painful ostentation, busying himself with the stallion and then gathering wood for their fire. Katya, while less obviously hostile, remained aloof, and the kotu-zen, alerted to her condition, withdrew to their own groupings. Calandryll found himself facing a quandary: should he risk Bracht's displeasure by inviting the woman to join them? Or should he go to her, which would doubtless anger the Kern the more? He paused, torn between loyalty and pity.

  And smiled thanks for Ochen's diplomatic intervention.

  The wazir sprang down from his horse with an agility that belied his years, smoothed out his opulent robe, ran fingers through his mustache, and bowed in a courtly manner to Cennaire as she stood indecisive.

  "Do you join me, Lady? I should welcome your company."

  He offered his arm, escorting her to a place a little way apart from Bracht and Katya, but yet clearly within their aegis, the signal clearer when he beckoned Calandryll to fill the gap.

  "Doubts exist," he said as the fire kindled, "and it would be foolish to pretend else. But I tell you this—that we ride together and should at the very least allow a truce."

  Bracht carved meat and said, "Those arguments we've heard, wizard. I ride with you, but I need not like the company."

  "Horul!" Ochen shook his head. "I've often thought my own people an unforgiving lot, but it seems we meet our match in you Kernish folk."

  Bracht shrugged, spitting the meat on sharpened twigs, not bothering to articulate a reply.

  "Mistrust breeds disaster," Ochen went on. "Did you not feel the touch of Rhythamun's magic today?"

  Bracht shook his head. Katya, silent and thoughtful, passed out hard journey bread, smoked cheese.

  "Aye." Calandryll nodded. "It seemed he sought once more to seduce me into the aethyr. But I spoke those cantrips you've taught me, and the feeling was gone."

  "It will come again," the wazir declared. "He waxes ever stronger, and he's a new key to your unlocking now. You must be ever vigilant against his attacks."

  Calandryll frowned, his eyes shaping a question.

  "What did you think about," asked Ochen, "when the world grew grey and the wind smelled of blood?"

  Calandryll paused a moment, then said, "Of doubts. I thought of Bracht's mistrust of Cennaire. Of . . . what I feel for her . . . and what she is . . ." From the corner of his eye he caught her glance then, hurt, and past her pained face, he saw Bracht's, angry and scornful. "I feared we should be sundered, fall to quarreling, be divided, and Rhythamun win the day."

  "Which he looks for," Ochen said, nodding grimly. "Like some poison seeking out the wounds into which it may flow, he looks to divide us, to prey on doubt and distrust."

  "I felt nothing," Bracht said obstinately. "It was a fine morning."

  "You've not that power Calandryll owns," Ochen returned. "I felt his attack; Calandryll felt it. He knows of Cennaire now, and likely guesses she's his enemy; what she feels, what Calandryll feels. No less, that mistrust comes between us."

  "How?" Bracht demanded, suspicious. "How can he know what I feel? What Katya feels? Or any of us?"

  Ochen sighed. "Have I not told you?" he asked. "There are two levels of existence—the one mundane, the other on the plane of the aethyr. Those with the occult power are able to cross betwixt the two, and their spirits—their pneuma—are strong on the occult plane. Calandryll is one such, though he's not yet the precise knowledge of it—that's a lifetime's study—but still he's strong there, and so Rhythamun is able to discern him. To learn somewhat of what he feels, and through that knowledge what those about him feel."

  "What do you say?" Katya asked. "That Rhythamun can see us through Calandryll's eyes?"

  "Not see us," Ochen answered patiently. "For that he would need send out a spy, what you name a quyvhal, but that he . . . senses . . . what Calah- dryll's pneuma feels, learns of our dis
sension and mistrust. He knows now that a bond exists between Calandryll and Cennaire, and that it drives a wedge between those who oppose him. Between you three. He looks to drive that difference wider, until none trusts the other and all fall down into confusion. The which must surely benefit him."

  "So you say we should trust you?" Bracht said, and stabbed a thumb toward Cennaire, "and this revenant ?"

  "I say that the wider you let the gap grow," Ochen returned, "the easier you make it for Rhythamun to attack Calandryll on the occult plane. Do you doubt him—because of his . . . sympathy ... for Cennaire—then you build a barrier between you. You isolate him, and thus weaken the shield your comradeship builds, and Rhythamun may find a way through those chinks."

  "I thought him protected by your magicks," the Kern snapped. "Have you not taught him cantrips? Has he not said already that he used them this day, to defend himself?"

  "Aye," said Ochen, "but Rhythamun's strength— Tharn's!—grows more powerful by the day, and these assaults shall increase. And do you doubt one another, then you make his task easier."

  "You ask for trust where that commodity is hard won," Bracht said. "It seems to me it were far easier if we were three again and riding alone."

  "Aye, but you are not," said Ochen, "and that's the way the design runs."

  Calandryll sighed as the argument turned back on itself, Bracht's obstinacy like a dog intent on pursuing its own tail. He looked at the Kern's hard- set face,- at Katya's—enigmatic, as if she pursued the course of her own thoughts—and then at Cennaire.

  She sat silent, her eyes downcast, her face partially hidden behind the sleek spill of her raven hair, her shoulders slumped. She seemed to him resigned, as if accepting whatever judgment might be delivered on her, as though she forsook hope and cast her destiny to the winds of fate. She seemed terribly alone, and he felt an impulse to reach out, take her hand; and at the same time a dreadful revulsion.

  This, he thought as Bracht and Ochen flung words like bouncing shuttlecocks at one another, might well continue throughout the journey to Pamur-teng. Even beyond, should the gijan there fail to persuade the Kern, and all the while Rhythamun would doubtless prowl the aethyr, seeking the chance to strike, strengthened by Tharn and doubt. He thought then of that day's assault, and for all he had defeated the attack, knew that he would not welcome another,- wondered how long he might resist, did mistrust continue to grow.