"So be it," Calandryll agreed, anger dissipated. "Now, do we find our breakfast and depart?"
The tension that had arisen was gone as they quit the chamber, meeting Katya and Cennaire emerging from the latter's room. Calandryll greeted them formally, and Cennaire replied in kind, though their eyes locked, bright with their hidden knowledge. Katya responded more casually, her grey gaze lingering awhile on Calandryll's face, as if she saw some change in him. She said nothing, however, and they found their way down through the levels of the hostelry to the main room, where Chazali and his kotu-zen, and Ochen, were already seated, eating.
It was difficult for Calandryll to maintain the camouflage of formality. Cennaire, by chance or design, was seated to his left, and he found it hard to resist the urge to turn toward her, to speak fondly, to touch her. Proximity brought a flood of remembrance, filled with images of that night, and he found himself regretting the necessity of pretense. More than once he caught Katya's eyes upon him, speculative, and while she gave no overt sign of awareness, he began to wonder if she guessed that he and Cennaire had become lovers in more than name. Perhaps, he thought, she saw such signs as Bracht and the other men along the table missed; perhaps some female intuition allowed her to read the truth upon his face and Cennaire's. He was relieved when the meal ended, and they departed.
Ochen spoke briefly with the priest as Chazali saw his men formed in a column, a squad of pikebearing kotu-anj waiting to escort them to the gates. The foot soldiers trotted ahead, clearing a way, their warning shouts loud in the early stillness. The sun was only a little way above the horizon as yet, invisible between the towering buildings and the high walls, and Ahgra-te seemed scarcely better lit than at twilight, a close-packed, claustrophobic place that Calandryll was not sorry to leave.
Beyond the walls the open space and morning offered welcome freedom, the great bulk of the Ahgra Danji looming vast over the town, its dark stone brightening as the rising sun sent lances of brilliance flashing over the rockface. Their path swung north at the crossroads outside the walls, running alongside the fast-flowing river, past mills and scattered smallholdings, where gettu paused from their labors to bow in obeisance to the higher caste kotu- zen. Within half a league they had reached the foot of the cliff, where two black stelae, twice the height of a mounted man, marked the commencement of the road.
Beyond the great pillars the way rose gently at first, wide enough several riders might go abreast without danger of falling, then, still wide, angled steeper up the cliff. It proceeded in a series of traverses, winding east and then west, and back again. In places it was built out from the rock, that wagons and the like might pass more easily, or halt awhile, those terraces walled, and supported by huge buttresses. It seemed to Calandryll they climbed with the sun, pacing the orb as it rose steadily higher into the blue sky, lighting their way as if in welcome, striking colors from the rock as choughs and ravens wheeled level with the column, screeching, turning curious yellow eyes on the riders. The scarp deflected the breeze that had previously blown from the north and the morning grew warm, the azure above streamered with pennants of cirrus like the windblown tails of great white horses. At the head of the column, Chazali set a swift pace, climbing remorselessly upward, as though, the hindrances of the forested country left behind, he would reach Pamur-teng as soon he might.
That suited Calandryll well enough, for besides the urgency of the quest, he now had a more personal reason to wish an early arrival in the hold of the Makusen clan. He turned in his saddle, looking toward Cennaire, smiling, and she looked back, her teeth white between the luscious red of her lips. She had left her hair unfastened this day, and it fluttered about her face in the thermals rising up the cliff, sleek and black as the wings of the avian escort. He thought she had never looked lovelier, and then melancholy that they must keep up their pretense: it would be hard this night to sleep alone.
The sun continued its ascent until it stood directly above them, and then moved on toward the west, but Chazali called no halt, holding a steady pace until early afternoon, when they breasted the last heights of the Ahgra Danji.
As at the foot, the summit of the road was marked with stelae, set like great sentinels on the very edge of the cliff. Chazali rode on a little way and raised a hand, calling for a halt beside a stonewalled basin fed from the river that splashed nearby before tumbling in a rainbow spray over the rimrock. The kotu-zen began to dismount, but Calandryll sat his gelding awhile, staring at the terrain ahead.
It was unlike any he had encountered in all his traveling: a panorama of flat grey-green that swept away as far as the eye could see, unbroken save for stumpy turrets of grey in the distance that seemed scoured smooth by the wind. That blew stronger here, and far colder than across the lowlands, setting the surface of the odd landscape to rippling, like the water of a scummy pond. He sprang down, aware now that the coloration was that of scrubby grass covering arid, stony soil. The wind struck sharp on his skin, a reminder that autumn advanced, bringing with it the threat of winter. He brought the chestnut to the drinking trough, still staring northward, thinking how this Jesseryn Plain must be under snow: it was a disturbing thought, knowing Rhythamun ten days ahead.
"You are pensive."
He turned at the sound of Cennaire's voice, seeing her hair streamered on the wind, a sable contrast to the clouds above, and smiled, resisting the urge to draw her close, at least take her hand and hold it awhile. Instead, he nodded, running fingers through the gelding's mane, and answered, "I thought of how this Plain must be in winter."
She, better used to the warm clime of Kandahar, shivered, and said, "Aye. I think it must be an inhospitable place."
Chazali, overhearing their words, said, "It is cold, aye. But not so bad. Our winters are mostly spent within the holds, protected and warm."
"But this season," asked Calandryll, "with the war raging? Or shall it halt for winter?"
The kiriwashen shook his head. "I think this war shall continue. I think Tharn fuels the hearts of those mad enough to warm their hands at his fire."
"Save we overtake Rhythamun," Calandryll replied, "and take the Arcanum from him."
"Horul grant it be so," Chazali returned gravely, and favored them'both with an impassive stare. "At least we shall make better time here. Save the warlock has left another rearguard."
His remark prompted Calandryll to savor the air, easing a fraction the occult protections he now set up by habit. Immediately, he drew them close again: the land stank of evil, of malign chaos. It was, in physical terms, as if a thousand carcasses rotted, their stench carried on the wind. It insulted his nostrils, assailed his senses, leaving a filthy taste on his tongue. Now he shivered, and Cennaire asked, "Does this cold afflict you?"
He shook his head, palming water from the well, that he might swill out his mouth and rid it of the aethyric sapor. "Not that," he answered, "but the malignity that rides the wind. Do you not sense it?"
She frowned, shaping a negative gesture. "I've not that power you command."
"Almost, I'd sooner not possess such ability." He shuddered, looking to the north, toward the wind's source. "It's a charnel thing."
"Tharn's dreaming breath." Ochen joined them as the kotu-zen brought food from saddlebags replenished in Ahgra-te. "Do you hold close those protections I've taught you, Calandryll."
"I shall," he replied decisively. "Dera, but to know that reek could leech out the senses."
"Aye." Ochen nodded, agreeing, his seamed face grave. "That and worse. Overmuch of that awareness can overturn the mind, bring the pneuma more readily within the aegis of the Mad God."
"Then I'm glad I've no such talent," Cennaire observed, "for it seems as much curse as blessing."
"Is not all power?" asked the wazir, his voice mild. "The occult talent, swordskill, wealth, they all may work for good or ill. Their use is dependent on the owner."
"There are philosophers in Lysse claim power corrupts," Calandryll remarked, "that the greater
a man owns power, the greater becomes his corruption."
"It is likely so," Ochen returned, "for men are generally far weaker than they think, and shorter of sight. Certainly, the wazir-narimasu are of similar . opinion—hence do they forswear the belligerent usage of the magicks they command."
"They must be very wise," Cennaire opined.
"And I'd speak of them," said Calandryll. "What they might accomplish."
"Aye, do you wish it." Did Ochen's face cloud then? "But not now. Tonight, perhaps, have we time."
And Calandryll must be content with that, for the kotu-zen already ate, and Bracht called for him to follow suit, lest he ride hungry through the afternoon. He had sooner done that, and talked with Ochen, but the wazir answered the Kern's shout with his own, and they went to where Bracht and Katya lounged on the impoverished grass.
It was a meal taken swiftly, Chazali soon enough calling for them to mount and be gone, and they climbed once more astride their horses, commencing their northward journey at a steady canter.
AFTERNOON advanced toward dusk. The turrets Calandryll had seen from the rim of the Ahgra Danji came closer, resolving into squat, smooth buttes of yellowish-grey. They stood like stubby fingers, pointing in reprimand of the wind that scoured their flanks, and as the sun closed on the skyline and a moon now waned to a sliver clambered up the sky, and stars pricked through the burgeoning twilight, it seemed almost that they supported the heavens, like pillars.
The sun fell below the far horizon, painting the sky there red for a while, then giving up its hold, leaving the welkin to the moon and- its attendant stars. The grass shone silvery in that light, and it seemed they rode the surface of a vast, shimmering lake. The buttes stood black and starlit in the night, suddenly mysterious as the piles of some inconceivably gigantic temple, fallen down into ruins. The wind increased, chilling the air, whistling eerily over the surfaces of the stone columns.
Chazali brought them to the shelter of a butte, a spring at its foot feeding a well carved with the insignia of the Makusen clan. Grass grew denser there, sufficient that the horses might graze on their picket lines, and wind-tortured trees provided fuel for fires. A guard was mounted, and Ochen worked his magic to establish further defenses; soon meat roasted and kettles bubbled as they settled for the night. Calandryll was delighted, although little surprised, to find Bracht true to his word: Cennaire was included in their conversation, as if the censorious silences of their approach to Ahgra-te had never been. He spread his blanket next to hers, across the fire from the Kern and Katya, feeling a small, traitorous regret that they were not alone.
He had, however, little enough time for that, as, immediately they had done eating, Ochen called him away, that he might continue his occult tuition.
The wazir led him away from the fires, past the watching sentries, to where starlight painted the wall of the butte pale silver, easing himself gingerly to the ground. Calandryll recognized the source of his discomfort and asked why he did not employ his magic to ease his riding, or at least his soreness.
"Too easy," Ochen returned, wincing as he sought a softer spot, "and perhaps hazardous."
"How so, hazardous?" Calandryll wondered.
Ochen bunched his robe beneath his buttocks before replying. "Each gramarye registers within the occult fundus," he explained. "Think of the aethyr as a pool, and every cantrip as a stone—the greater the spell, the more noticeable the ripples. Rhythamun knows by now you've a grasp of that talent he saw from the first; he knows a mage rides with you. Perhaps he watches the aethyr, and I'd not yet tell him where we are. Also, each gramarye requires an expenditure of strength, and albeit such a spelling as you suggest would be but a tiny effort, still I'd hold all my power close."
Calandryll nodded his understanding, then frowned as he saw a contradiction. "But if Rhythamun might sense your spelling," he asked, "how shall he miss the defenses you erect each night?"
"A good point," Ochen commended. "It hangs, however, on a subtle difference—the gramaryes I employ to defend our camps are general things: warding spells attuned to no particular person/' He chuckled ruefully. "On the other hand, do I use my talent to ease my poor, aching buttocks, then the gramarye must be of an individual nature, attuned to me alone. That might, were our enemy observant, reveal me to him."
Calandryll murmured understanding, then asked: "But in Ahgra-te, when you rendered us invisible, was that not a personal spell?"
"It was," Ochen agreed, "but there I'd spoken first with the priest, who is also, of course, himself a wazir, and together we established a protection."
Again Calandryll nodded, and again found a question. "And now? When you tutor me, does that not reveal us?"
"We work within the aegis of the gramarye warding this whole camp," Ochen answered, "and for now you do little more than memorize the cantrips, master the invocations and the mental concepts. Such should be protection enough for the nonce. Later, perhaps, there may be danger."
"As we come closer to Tharn's limbo?" asked Calandryll.
"Aye. You felt him on the wind today," the wazir said, "and you felt his reek come stronger. The farther north we travel, the worse that will become, the greater the Mad God's influence."
"What of the wazir-narimasu?" Calandryll frowned, assembling his thoughts. "Shall their influence not wax greater as we close on Anwar-teng?"
"That's true," said Ochen, "but remember they strive to defend the hold against the rebels' siege. And likely strive the harder to hold closed the gate they guard."
Each explanation seemed to raise a fresh question: "Save Tharn wakes, how can that be?" Calandryll demanded.
The wazir's robe rustled as he shrugged, starlight glinting a moment off his painted nails. "I thought you understood that the slumber of a god is not like that of men/' he said. "Tharn rests in limbo, sleeping, aye; but he dreams, too, and feels the blood that flows on this mortal plane, the wars men fight, the dreams they entertain of conquest. Such feed him and strengthen him, and even dreaming he affects our affairs. Likely he probes the gate in Anwar-teng, or alerts Rhythamun of its existence, and so, likely, the wazir-narimasu exert their powers to hold that portal secure.
"Now, be that explanation enough, do we continue your tutoring? Or have you further questions for a saddle-weary sorcerer?"
"None more than what I've asked before," Calandryll said, "concerning Cennaire."
Ochen sighed: Calandryll felt suddenly uneasy.
"Your lessons first," the wazir declared. "After, be we not both too weary, we shall speak of Cennaire, and of her heart."
Something in his tone sent a shiver of apprehension down Calandryll's spine.
14
NECROMANCY such as Anomius has employed," Ochen said when the lesson was done and Calandryll pressed him further on the matter of Cennaire's heart, "is not practiced here— nor by any civilized folk, for that matter—and consequently is not a thing with which I am overly familiar. Nor would I be, save I'd aid Cennaire."
"You told me her heart might be restored her," Calandryll protested, alarm edging his voice.
"It may be done." Ochen raised defensive hands. "But . . ."
He paused, and Calandryll waited, breath baited, his own, living, heart pounding nervously, for he heard in the sorcerer's voice a hesitation that set his nerves to tingling, apprehension growing. "But?" he prompted.
Ochen sighed, hands folding, lost in the wide sleeves of his green robe. For a moment his gaze encompassed the night, the stars, the sickle of the moon, then his eyes turned to Calandryll's face, somber. "You deserve the truth, unalloyed," he said at last, "and that HI give you. But first, a warning: the truth may not be what you want to hear. No, wait," as Calandryll's mouth opened, his eyes narrowed. "Hear me out, knowing that I speak holding insufficient knowledge, that I speak of the worst that may be, and that—Horul and his kindred gods willing—the worst may not come to pass. It may be that you and she gain your hearts' desires."
Calandryll ducked his head, indi
cating acceptance even as his lips pressed tight together. It seemed an icy hand ran down his spine.
"So," Ochen went on, low-voiced, "let us consider the situation. To restore Cennaire to mortality requires that her heart be freed from Anomius's clutches. To achieve that end, the pyxis must be brought from Nhur-jabal—and I'd wager Anomius has set it round with powerful gramaryes. That alone should be hazardous, none here knowing the citadel. But—does Cennaire describe that place in minute detail—it might be accomplished."
He broke off, nodding as if approving, or confirming, the statement: Calandryll felt his spirits soar. Then fall again as Ochen continued, "But that may not be the way of it, may not be a pattern in this design. I've told you before that it is not my talent to scry the future, and also that it is my belief a design exists in all of this. Perhaps Balatur, like his brother, dreams and sends you help; perhaps those powers that govern even the Younger Gods take a hand. I cannot say, only that it seems to me it was fated Cennaire should join you, and that she should become your ally."
"Then," blurted Calandryll, unable to hold silent any longer, "surely Balatur—the Younger Gods— whatever power exists beyond them, must aid us in this?"
"Perhaps," said Ochen slowly, "but think on this—were it fated that Cennaire become one with your quest, then perhaps her revenancy is needful. Perhaps she must remain revenant, is she to aid you."
"No!" Calandryll's voice rose in denial, in frustration. "That cannot be!"
"What may and may not be is for the gods, for destiny, to decide," the wazir replied, "not mortal men. But heed me—I do not say it must be so, only that it may be. Perhaps you shall have your wish."
"And perhaps not," muttered Calandryll, his voice grown bitter.
"And perhaps not," echoed the sorcerer. "Be that so, would you turn from your purpose?"
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 32