Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  She nodded solemnly at his instructions and Katya drew the mirror from beneath her shirt, passing it to Cennaire. The Kand woman took the glass from its pouch, warily, as if she mistrusted the device. Calandryll saw her lick her lips, a hint of fear in her dark eyes, and gently touched her shoulder.

  Ochen said, "Now do I work my own gramarye, and then you shall use the glass/7

  She nodded again, watching as the sorcerer motioned the others to stand together, raising his hands as he began to intone the arcane syllables of the spell. The scent of almonds flooded the chamber, the forms of the questers and the wazir shimmering, disappearing.

  Ochen's voice came out of nowhere: 77Do we keep silent now. Cennaire, do you summon him?"

  She ducked her head and mouthed the cantrip taught her. The mirror swirled, colors vying in its surface, the almond scent again sweet on the air, fading as the kaleidoscope resolved into the unpleasant features of Anomius.

  "You take your time, woman."

  The voice was faint, but still distinct: Calandryll heard it and grimaced as he peered over Cennaire's shoulder. Anomius grew no lovelier,- nor, it seemed, better humored.

  "I've not had opportunity ere now," she answered.

  A snarl of disapproval, then: "So tell me how you fare about my business."

  "Well enough I think. We are in a place named Ahgra-te, riding north after Rhythamun."

  "You're close?"

  "He's yet some distance ahead, but we hope to overtake him."

  "When?"

  "I cannot say for sure. We ride for the Borrhun- maj still, where they believe he must go. Also, we've learned his name."

  "That's little enough."

  "Aye, but something, surely. And what more might I do?"

  "Um. They trust you still? They do not sus- pect?,/

  "No. They trust me—I am accounted one with them now."

  "Good. And Calandryll, Bracht? Do you find favor with one or the other?"

  Almost, Cennaire blushed then. Certainly, she feared she should give herself away: it was an effort to hold her expression confident as she replied, "Aye. I believe Calandryll favors me."

  "Excellent. What of the Jesserytes?"

  "They help us on our way. As I told you before— they count Calandryll a hero for the slaying of Rhythamun's creatures back on the Kess Imbrun. They still believe we travel to Vanu."

  "I suppose I must be satisfied."

  "I can do no more, save I quit their company and roam ahead of them. Would you have me do that?"

  "No! That you remain with them is paramount. It's still my belief that only they may wrest the Arcanum from Rhythamun, and you shall be present then, the mirror ready."

  "And you? Shall you come then?"

  "I shall. Oh, most definitely I shall."

  "Are you freed then? Have you vanquished the Tyrant's sorcerers?"

  "The time is not yet ripe. But fear not, my creature. It shall be as I promise."

  "You'll come when they've the Arcanum?"

  "Have I not told you so? Aye, so long as you've the mirror, I've the means to join you. But not yet; for now it's far better they know not my hand in this."

  "And the war? How goes that?"

  "It draws to a conclusion. Xenomenus holds all the coast now, with only Fayne Keep to take. Sathoman lairs there, like a beaten animal. Were it not for the cursed Lyssians, I should have taken that hold."

  "What part do the Lyssians take?"

  "The god-cursed Domm of Secca raises an invasion force. Our spies advise us he's a fleet at his command, and the support of the western cities. They raise their army, thinking to strike while we fight with Sathoman. Ha! Tobias den Karynth shall learn the error of his pride, does he come against me."

  "You?"

  "Aye, me. Were it not for his ambition, I'd have delivered Sathoman to the Tyrant ere now. But Xenomenus would have all his sorcerers strengthen the defenses along the coast against the Lyssian threat. In consequence, we delay the final conquest. E'en now I'm in Ghombalar, warding against Lyssian attack."

  "Alone, or do you work still with the Tyrant's sorcerers?"

  "I am forced to work with them. But enough now recognize my powers that I am counted the mightiest among them."

  "And shall they therefore free you?"

  "Once Ghombalar and Vishat'yi are secured against the Lyssians, we turn north again, to finish Sathoman. That done, I'll have my freedom. By their will, or my own."

  "You are truly the mightiest of sorcerers, that you can break the gramaryers binding you."

  "Indeed, I am. And even now some speak to free me. Only mewling fools argue against that."

  "But what if their voices are heard?"

  "Of that, I've thought, woman. Xenomenus would have me deliver him Sathoman's head, and for that I must broach the magicks defending Fayne Keep. Only I may do that, and once I have—think you I'd not pondered the future? I left such occult devices in Faye Keep as shall cut these fetters like melted butter. And then I shall be paramount. I need only delay until you've found me the Arcanum. Now, enough. They approach, and I'd not have them suspect what I do. Use the mirror again when you may. Until then, go about my business."

  "Aye, master. Farewell."

  A swirl of color, the scent of almonds, the mirror once more only a glass, a simple vanity. Cennaire let go a long, slow breath, staring at her reflection a moment, suddenly aware how very afraid she had been of facing Anomius, of lying to him. She felt a wash of relief as she replaced the glass in its pouch and returned the package to Katya. Only then did she turn, and Calandryll saw her shudder, her smooth forehead moist. He moved toward her even as Ochen mouthed the cantrip that restored him to sight, the chamber once more perfumed with almonds, taking her hands as he saw them tremble. He felt her fingers tighten on his and smiled, looking to comfort her, for he saw that she was anxious and more than a little afraid.

  "Was that done well?" she asked nervously.

  "Excellently," Ochen declared. "I learned much from that. Anomius is far stronger than I'd thought. We must play him carefully."

  "You name that excellent?" Bracht's voice regained a measure of suspicion. "Did I hear aright, Anomius has the means to break his bonds and go where the mirror is. Is that excellent?"

  "To know that much of our enemy?" Ochen countered. "Aye, I'd say it so."

  "Do you explain?" Katya suggested.

  "We've some measure of his strength now," Ochen replied. "We know his whereabouts, and that he'll not attempt to interfere until he knows

  Cennaire has the Arcanum in sight. Thus, we may forget him for the while, save I think we might send him another message when we reach Pamur- teng. But we need not fear his presence yet."

  "Riddles," Bracht grunted.

  The wazir chuckled, his ancient visage creasing in myriad wrinkles. "Anomius suspects nothing," he said confidently. "Do you not see? By means of that glass, thanks to Cennaire, we may control Anomius. Now, the hour grows late, and we depart at dawn—do we therefore find our beds?"

  The Kern and Kakya nodded, voicing agreement. Calandryll moved to follow them, but Cennaire clutched his hands, a plea in her eyes as she studied his face.

  "Do you remain awhile?" she asked softly. "Pd have your company a little while, save you cannot bear to be alone with me."

  For an instant he hesitated, embarrassed. Katya was already gone into the corridor, but Bracht paused, his expression equivocal, then shrugged, going after her. Ochen smiled mischievously, and before Calandryll had entirely made up his own mind, went out, quietly closing the door.

  "Do you ask it, Lady," Calandryll replied.

  Cennaire said, "I do."

  13

  A chamber, starlight came faint through the narrow window, affording the room a crepuscular intimacy that was augmented by the absence of furniture. There was the bed, on which Cennaire sat, and a faldstool. Calandryll would have gone to that, but the woman still held his hand and he was loath to break that contact: he took a place beside her
, on the bed. It was, he noticed, easily wide enough for two. He caught the scent of her fresh- washed hair, the musky perfume of her skin, and was suddenly aware of the proximity of her body. He felt a dryness in his mouth and swallowed, ran a tongue over his lips, looking down at her hand in his. It was a small hand, and delicate, the skin smooth, warm: he could scarce believe the strength he had witnessed there. He was simultaneously afraid to turn his head, to look at her, and impelled to do so.

  Her skin was very tan in the dim light. Sparks of red and silver glinted in her hair. Her eyes were huge, liquid pools. Her mouth seemed red as blood. He swallowed again, those senses that were male and basic, unthinking, urged him to draw closer, to put his arms around her and press her to the bed. He did not think she would object; rather, he felt, as she returned his gaze, she would welcome it. But still there remained, in that other part of his mind that was objective, distanced and logical, the knowledge of what she was. He saw the tiny tic of pulsing blood beneath the soft skin of her throat, and thought how good, how sweet, to put his lips there, to taste her flesh beneath his tongue. And then, a mental hand tugging at the sleeve of his desire, that no mortal heart propelled that blood along its course. He closed his eyes a moment, anguished, and cleared his throat.

  "Lady?" His voice came gruff and awkward to his ears and hers. "You'd speak with me?"

  Cennaire ducked her head, studying him from beneath long lashes, disappointment in her eyes, rapidly hidden, lest he should believe she looked to seduce him, as Anomius had commanded. Might he not believe that was her intent, even with a god as her guarantor? Burash, but she wished he would hold her,- indeed, could scarce resist the impulse to touch his face, draw his mouth toward hers, bring him down beside her on the bed. And was horribly afraid he should pull back, that she would see loathing in his eyes.

  "I feared Anomius should know what I did," she murmured, unable to repress the shudder that thought brought. "I feared he should see through me, and destroy me. I'd not be alone for a little while."

  "Nor shall you be," he promised. "Though you've naught to fear—he suspected nothing. You played your part well."

  She smiled, wan, and said, "But still he has that power over me." She was reluctant to say out loud "my heart" for the reminder it should give.

  Calandryll said it for her: "That he holds your heart in his ensorcelled pyxis? Aye, that's a terrible power. But ..."

  He paused, frowning, those thoughts that had wandered the avenues of his mind since first she had told him of her creation, of the power Anomius commanded, of the mirror, of all she'd done, taking distinct shape, forming a potential resolution.

  Cennaire waited, studying him with a longing she could barely conceal. This was, beyond all doubt, love, that she could take such pleasure from the simple observance of his features, of the play of lantern's light in his sun-bleached hair. Desire, too, but of a kind she had not known before, gentle as it was fierce, needing his approval, his reciprocation, in equal measure with the simpler lust. She made no move, only waited, content for the moment that he should still hold her hand and not spurn her.

  Slowly, a note of caution in his voice, he said, "I've thought on that. Perhaps the mirror holds the answer."

  "How so?" she asked tentatively when he fell silent again.

  His eyes narrowed as he pondered, looking not at her now, but into some future possibility. Then: "It's clear what Anomius would have you do—ride with us until the Arcanum is secured, then have you use the glass to bring him where we are. Doubtless he counts on surprise and his own occult strength—likely your aid, too—to wrest the book from us."

  "Aye." Now Cennaire frowned, wondering where his musing led. "That much seems clear."

  "And," he continued, "his power appears limited by distance, no less than those fetters he wears. Why else send you about his business?"

  "I do not understand," she whispered, as hope arose.

  "Were we to deceive him," he murmured, "to persuade him to come to some place far from Nhur-jabal, where Ochen—the wazir-narimasu— might entrap him with their magic, then perhaps he could not harm your heart. But you, knowing that gramarye of transportation, might return to the citadel . . . Aye! Ochen with you, perhaps, if that be possible. Or I. Then, it might be you could secure the pyxis unharmed, and bring it to Anwar- teng, where the wazir-narimasu might return your heart, and you become again ..."

  He broke off, face flushed with embarrassment, the fear that he should insult her, hurt her.

  Now it was Cennaire who completed the unfinished sentence: "Mortal? Think you that possible? That the wazir-narimasu might give me back my heart?"

  "Be they great as Ochen claims," he said, nodding. "Then aye, I do. Though I'd speak of this with Ochen ere such attempt be made."

  "But you?" Excitement was in her voice, hope. "Think you it might be done? Truly?"

  He faced her then, solemn, and said, "'Twas sorcery took your heart; surely then, sorcery might restore it to you."

  "The gods grant it may be so," she said fervently, hands tightening on his. Then lowered her eyes, herself embarrassed now, and that an unfamiliar feeling. "And then should you truly love me?"

  "Lady," he answered, "I love you now."

  "But this"—she loosed one hand to touch her breast, Calandryll's eyes following the movement, his breath a sudden intake—"this . . . absence . . . stands between us."

  He was abruptly flustered, cheeks reddened, his gaze shifting, from where her hand pressed tight the material of her shirt, to her face. Awkwardly, honestly, he answered, "Cennaire, I cannot tell you it be otherwise. Dera, but could I only forget that! Could I, then I should; but I cannot. I love you, but I cannot forget that."

  She wondered then what clouded her vision, surprised to realize it was the moisture of tears: it was an unfamiliar sensation. She let them flow, unable to stem that flood, uncaring, staring blindly at his face as she wept in mournful silence.

  Calandryll reacted without thought, simple emotion controlling him as he loosed her grip upon his hand and reached to touch her cheek, his fingers gentle, moving as though of their own accord to her shoulders, to her hair. He drew her close, his arms around her, his face buried in the raven hair, feeling her embrace, the trembling of her body against his chest. Helplessly, he whispered, "Cennaire, I love you. I pray we may regain your heart. I love you."

  "And I you," he heard her mumble, her lips soft against his throat, where his shirt hung open. "But still this stands between us."

  It was pain to them both as he answered, "I cannot deny it. Forgive me, but I cannot."

  "You've nothing to forgive." A shock ran through him as her mouth moved against his flesh. "It is I should ask that. For all I've done, and all I've been."

  No!" He pushed her back, a hand upon her shoulder, a hand against her cheek. "What you've done and been, that lies in the past. It means nothing! Has Horul himself not absolved you? Should I deny a god? Dera, but even Bracht admits error in this, agrees you become one with our quest."

  He forbore to mention the Kern was not yet entirely resolved. That would come to pass, he was certain—for now he wished only to reassure her, to comfort her. The tears that glistened on her cheeks struck pain into him, each droplet a needle pricking his soul.

  "Katya said the same," she murmured, endeavoring without success to stifle her sobs. "I hoped, therefore ..."

  Her voice tailed off and she sat, her shoulders, her breast, shaking as she wept, her eyes luminous, shedding tears that ran unhindered down her cheeks. Calandryll was barely conscious what he did then, compelled by a need that transcended logic, dismissed memory, banished hesitation. He saw before him only a weeping woman: the woman he loved; not sorcery's creation, but a woman, beautiful, sobbing. He knew not how the distance between them closed, only that he kissed her, that she responded, that her lips were soft, salted with her tears. It seemed that gravity laid them across the bed, that a force beyond his understanding commanded his hands, his fingers. He was not sure h
ow it came about that his clothing was gone, and hers, only that now he knew no reservations, that what she was no longer had meaning, save that she was a woman and he loved her. He was little enough experienced, and she, for all she was well versed in such matters, felt herself virginal, even as she held him and guided him, her tears drying, replaced with joy as he came to her.

  She felt reborn as they lay together, the past—as he had told her—dismissed, she with her first true lover. He had not known it should be like this, so urgent and so fond, such pleasure found in her pleasure, his a wakening fire answered by hers, desire augmented by love.

  THEY lay together, entwined, as the night fell down into still darkness and then the pearly announcement of dawn. A cock crowed, a dog barked, Ahgra-te began to wake. Calandryll stirred, at first unsure where he lay, wondering at the soft warmth that pressed against him, the musky scent that filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes, the sun not yet above the horizon, and in the gloom saw Cennaire's sleeping face,, her hair a blue-black spread across the pillows, her body outlined beneath the tumbled sheets. He felt desire move anew, and then, as if she sensed his eyes upon her, hers opened and he wondered—a fleeting, guilty thought—if her preternatural senses told her she was watched.

  An instant of remorse then, a pang of guilt, banished as she opened her arms and murmured, "I love you."

  "And I you," he answered, going to her again.

  When both were spent, stretched languid with their arms about each other, he wondered what Bracht, what Katya, should think of this, and then day and all its concerns impinged. Gently, he disengaged her arms and pushed aside the sheets, once more awkward, embarrassed as he wondered what his comrades might say did they learn that he and Cennaire were now lovers.

  "We depart at dawn," he said. "I had best find my chamber."