Calandryll stared at him, disbelief in his eyes, and shook his head. "No," he answered. "In Tezin- dar I—we three—vowed to pursue this quest to its end. I'd not renege on that undertaking, no matter what. But still I'd see Cennaire regain her heart."
"And if that's not to be?" asked Ochen.
Calandryll turned his face from the wazir to the sky, aware that tears threatened to course his cheeks, that he ground his teeth in frustration, that his hands bunched in angry fists. Dera, but it was hard! And, as Bracht was wont to remark, it seemed all dealings with the occult resulted in the piling of riddle upon riddle. There seemed no clear answers, only a shifting webwork of possibilities. He swallowed, forcing himself to calm, his hands unclenching to wipe absently at his eyes, and strove to hold his voice even as he replied, "Then it shall not be, and I must accept that. It shall not alter my course."
"Were she mortal, you should be dead ere now," Ochen remarked, seeking to offer what comfort was his to give.
"A part of this design you perceive/' Calandryll muttered.
"Likely," said the wazir, "for it seems to me one thing piles upon another in ordered sequence— Anomius sends Cennaire out ahunting, she his creature then. She encounters you and finds her— forgive me?—heart is changed. Your company, your influence, shifts her allegiance to such extent she is willing to sacrifice herself. She becomes, sincerely, your ally. None of this should have come about were she not revenant, and so it may be that she is destined to remain so."
"Surely only while this quest lasts," Calandryll returned. "Do we succeed, then surely she's played her part and the wazir-narimasu cannot refuse to return her heart."
He waited on Ochen's reply, but when it came the sorcerer's voice was held carefully calm: "I've little doubt but that they should make the attempt."
It was equivocal, and Calandryll felt his mouth dry, presentiment mounting. Ochen's hesitation was unnerving and he motioned for the old man to elaborate.
"You ask no easy thing," Ochen said slowly, thoughtfully. "To undo such magic, reverse those gramaryes ... If any can, then the wazir-narimasu, in concert . . . Aye, they might."
"Only might?" Harsh, that question, tinged with fear.
"I can promise no more." Ochen sighed, ducked his head as if unwilling to meet Calandryll's fervent eyes. "Such sortilege is dangerous—it might well leave Cennaire without life of any kind, a heartless shell."
Calandryll said, "Dera!" in a voice soft with dread. .
"This need not be. I cannot answer for the wazir- narimasu. Perhaps it can be done successfully; but I know it cannot be done without great risk." The wazir met his gaze now, a hand emerging from the folds of his sleeve to gesture helplessly. "I warned you I should speak plain."
"Aye." Calandryll laughed: a single, bitter sound. "That you did."
"Better you should know it now," said Ochen, "than when we reach Anwar-teng. I believe you'll need all your senses alert then."
Calandryll ducked his head, silent awhile, shoulders slumped, staring at the dark ground. Then he looked up, at Ochen, and forced a smile, sad. "Aye," he admitted, the word a sigh. "Best I be prepared for the worst."
"Should the worst not be that Rhythamun succeeds?" the sorcerer asked mildly. "That Tharn be raised and all these concerns count for nothing?"
"Aye." Calandryll's voice was resolute, and very weary. "Now do we find our beds? Or would you tutor me more?"
"We've done enough for one night," Ochen returned him, "and Chazali will ride out come first light. So ..."
He rose, groaning, a hand pressed to his back, muttering vivid obscenities concerning horses and saddles and the frailty of his aging flesh, so that Calandryll felt a reluctant smile stretch his lips, which was likely Ochen's intent.
Save for the sentries, the camp slept. Bracht and Katya lay a little way apart by the banked fire, Cennaire across the smoldering timber. Calandryll stretched beside her, wondering if she slept; wondering, too, if he should advise her of Ochen's dour warning. Did she ask, he decided, thinking it were better they held no secrets from each other.
He saw her eyes, then, the fire's glow reflected there, and her hand extended from beneath the blanket that covered her. He took it, the touch of her skin, the pressure of her fingers, a shock of excitement, desire. Low, she whispered, "What did he say?" .
Soft enough he should not disturb their slumbering companions he told her, seeing her face grow grave, her grip upon his hand tightening. "So be it," she murmured when he was done. "I'd ask the gods grant the doing of it, but if that's not to be . . ."
"What I feel for you shall not change," he told her.
"Nor shall my feelings. But still I'd have back my heart," she returned, and laughed softly, her smile bemused as she added, "I'd not thought to want that so. Not until I knew you."
He brought her hand to his lips then, kissing her fingers. Pulling back as the temptation to draw her close, to fold his arms about her, became almost irresistible. Dera, he thought, is this what Bracht and Katya have felt each night? I'd not believed it could be so hard.
Aloud, he whispered, "Lady, this is not easy."
"No," she answered, "but still we made a vow."
"Aye," he groaned, the sound loud enough Bracht stirred, eyes opening an instant, hand tightening on the falchion's hilt, where it lay upon the Kern's chest. He rose on one elbow, saw Calandryll, and grunted, closing his eyes.
"Sleep," urged Cennaire, and Calandryll answered her, "Aye," softly now, and let her retrieve her hand.
He composed himself with difficulty, his mind filled with thoughts of Cennaire and all Ochen had said, the one tumbling over the other so that he slipped unknowing into dreams of passion and despair, restless under his blanket.
FIRST light found him bleary-eyed and dry of mouth, grunting as he rose, the blanket tangled from his oneiric musings. He kicked it away, yawning as he surveyed the desolate landscape. The sun was not yet over the horizon, the sky there opalescent, pale herald of the new day. Birds sang as he splashed his face and set to drawing his dirk over the stubble that decorated his cheeks and jaw. The kotu-zen moved with their customary silent efficiency, setting kettles to boiling, preparing their horses for departure. Katya tended the questers' fire, and Cennaire went to aid her, while Bracht gave his stallion its usual morning attention. Calandryll smiled wearily at the two women and wandered away, finding privacy along the lee of the butte. That need satisfied, he returned to the fire, drinking the tea Cennaire offered him, accepting the smoked meat and journey bread Katya had warmed over the flames.
The night's fast broken, they saddled their mounts and kicked the fires dead, then rode out from the shelter of the butte. Beyond the stubby prominence the wind blew hard from the north, beating cold against faces, setting the horses' manes to tossing. Calandryll sniffed the air, wondering if he caught the scent of impending snow. Certainly, it seemed the farther north they traveled, the closer they came to winter: the sky was now become a hard, cold blue, what clouds it carried long mares' tails of pennanted cirrus, white against the cerulean heavens. The sun that climbed above the eastern edge of the world shone fulgent, more silver than gold, offering little warmth.
That came as the morning aged, Chazali setting the same swift pace as the previous day, holding it until the sun stood directly overhead, then halting where another butte marked another spring. They drank the crystal water and chewed hurriedly on cold meat, a little bread, and then recommenced their journey.
As dusk approached, the buttes that had dotted the plain thinned, finally disappearing behind them, the way ahead devoid of landmarks other than the ravines and occasional stands of stumpy, twisted trees that grew in defiance of the arid soil and the seemingly eternal wind. They halted in the poor shelter of one such stand as twilight gave way to full night, their fires small for want of timber, the wind, unchecked by bastions of stone, a fierce presence, howling over the flatlands to rattle branches and streamer the flames, scattering sparks into the night.
"You spoke arigh
t," Bracht remarked as they ate, and when Calandryll frowned his incomprehension: "That this is a glum place."
"There are worse," Ochen, sitting with them, remarked. "The Borrhun-maj is a harder land than this."
"But, at least, mountains," Katya observed wistfully.
"Likely we'll see them soon enough," Bracht said, grinning. "Shall you be happy then?"
Katya smiled back. "I'd sooner my own mountains of Vanu; with the Arcanum safe in our hands."
THE days passed, the leagues eaten up as a hungry man wolfs food. The terrain broke up into ridges of low hills and shallow valleys, streams more numerous, and little hursts of stunted trees. Once great banks of dark cloud blew southward on an icy wind, and once snow fell, no more than a brief flurry, but clear warning of winter's advance. They saw no sign of habitation in the empty landscape, neither villages nor farms, nor much indication that any form of animal life existed on the Jesseryn Plain. It was, to Calandryll's way of thinking, a depressing place, and on those few occasions he opened his senses to the occult, he found the horrid reek of mounting evil ever stronger, as if he came steadily closer to the gates of a charnel house new- filled with rotting corpses. Ochen continued to tutor him in the lore and usage of thaumaturgy, and those lessons, lasting long into the ever colder nights, were a kind of boon, for he found his blanket chilled and weary, his head abuzz with all he learned, and that made it a little easier to resist the temptation Cennaire's presence afforded. When they found time to speak they said no more of her heart and its restoration, tacit agreement between them, though neither could forget the possibility that she not become again mortal, or perhaps die in the attempt.
Then, on a day when cloud hung low in the sky, stretching a forbidding grey curtain across the heavens, they came in sight of Pamur-teng.
The hold stood at the center of a wide strath, banded to north and south by ridges of gentle hills. It looked, in the distance, akin to the keep on the Daggan Vhe: a square, squat block of yellowish stone, rendered dull by the overcast, but as they thundered closer Calandryll saw the resemblance to the keep was one of design alone. This hold was infinitely larger, far greater than Secca even. It grew before him, vast and cubic, utterly unlike any city he had seen. There were no external walls such as surrounded the cities of Lysse, nor a moat, or barbicans. Like Ahgra-te before it, Pamur-teng was fortress and city in one, its outer defenses intrinsic with its internal buildings, all melded together in a single homogenous entirety. It was constructed so that each enormous wall faced a compass point, the southern facade, toward which they came, marked at its center by a huge double gate, the outer surfaces covered with sheets of hammered metal inlaid with the sigils of the Makusen clan. Closer still, he saw embrasures like watching eyes set in the stone, commencing high on the wall and running in regular lines out to either side, upward almost to the ramparts that soon loomed above. From those, suspended from long beams, hung metal cages that a further examination showed held prisoners. Some, he saw, held only bones: he wondered at the nature of Jesseryte justice.
Then Chazali shouted a command and two men brought their horses out of line, galloping ahead to halt at the gates and pound upon the metal. The gates swung ponderously open, revealing a tunnel, black as night, from which kotu-anj came running, forming in two pike-bearing lines. As Chazali and Ochen drew level with the foremost pikemen the kotu-anj raised their weapons, bringing the butts thudding down as they roared a greeting. More lined the tunnel beyond, and within that confined space the sound was deafening.
The tunnel spanned the width of two buildings before emerging on a crepuscular plaza, the buildings that contained the square six stories and more high, with stone stairways and windows from which expectant faces gazed, narrow passageways running between. The sheer weight of stone, the smooth, high faces of the buildings, was daunting, oppressive: Calandryll was reminded of an anthill.
The more so as they progressed farther into the teng, following a smooth-paved road flanked on either side by pavements, those packed with cheering folk, more staring from windows, or from small stone balconies that added to the obliteration of the sky. His first impression, he saw, had been correct—this was as much a fortress as a city, a place easily defended, and horribly difficult to take. It seemed they passed between night and day as they went on, traversing avenues where shadow pooled, into squares—always squares, geometric and precise—that allowed a little of the day's dull light to enter. On and on, the shouting of the onlookers echoing off the high walls, until they rode down a passageway that ended at a metal gate, the wall above set with slender windows at which dark faces showed. Chazali reined in, halting the column, and Ochen turned awkwardly in his saddle to explain that they entered the kiriwashen's home.
The gate was opened by two elderly kotu-anj and the outlanders found themselves riding down a second tunnel, this devolving on a courtyard different to any they had seen before.
A marble fountain played at the center of an atrium large as a Lyssian city square, paved with flagstones set in a pattern of black and white rectangles, a colonnaded portico surrounding the enormous plaza. Above, balconies extended in serried ranks, climbing up to the topmost level, men and women in outfits of varying degrees of magnificence standing there, watching eagerly. Calandryll gasped as it dawned on him that this was, in fact, the home of the entire Nakoti clan, a virtual town within the city. He stared about, identifying stables, smithies, workshops, armories, as the yard filled with smiling, excited Jesserytes.
Servants came running to assist the kotu-zen from their horses, four halted by a gruff command from Chazali that held them back from the foreigners. Calandryll watched as a woman came forward, three children at her side. She was short, and delicate as a porcelain doll, her dark hair gathered in a long tail, her slanted eyes accentuated with cosmetics, her lips small and painted a bright red, the same vivid color evident on her long nails. She wore a robe of pale blue, chased with golden threading about the hem and cuffs, and as she approached, its swaying revealed golden slippers, the toes pointed. Two of the children were girls, dressed in miniature facsimiles of the woman's robe, the other a boy, wearing a scarlet tunic over loose pantaloons of shiny black silk, a child-size dagger sheathed on his belt, his feet encased in low boots of black leather. The woman bowed low; the children followed suit. Chazali bowed. Then removed his helmet to expose a huge smile as he opened his arms, sweeping up the woman, who laughed and draped her arms about his neck.
"The Lady Nyka Nakoti Makusen," Ochen murmured by way of explanation. "The girls are Taja and Venda; the boy is Rawi."
It appeared that Chazali's greeting of his wife marked an end of formalities: folk came from all four sides of the great courtyard to fall upon the kotu-zen in noisy welcome as servants led their horses away to stables that Calandryll realized occupied one entire side of the atrium. Several hovered close to the outlanders' mounts, clearly unsure what protocol governed here, that settled by Bracht's suggestion that they see their own animals stabled.
They waited, however, until Chazali had released his wife and taken up each child in turn, his expression no longer impassive, but alight with pleasure as he held them. When he was done, he turned, ushering his family forward to meet his guests.
The Lady Nyka bowed deep, murmuring that they were welcome in the home of the Nakoti, while the three children eyed the strangers with curious looks, the two girls giggling nervously as they were beckoned forward to offer carefully practiced bows before edging back to the shelter of their mother's skirts. Rawi, although clearly disconcerted by the presence of these tall, oddly dressed outlanders, marched up to them with a stiff back, bent almost double, and declared in a loud voice that they were, indeed, welcome if they were friends of his father.
"They are," said Chazali, favoring his son with a proud look, and raised his voice that all should hear him: "These are my guests, and friends to the Makusen. Indeed, friends to our land and our god. Count them as blood kin, and serve them well while they sojourn in
our teng."
"And shall that be for long?" asked his wife, to which Chazali shook his head and answered, "I fear not. The war calls, and we ride out on the morrow."
Nyka nodded as if she had expected no other answer, her expression unaltered, but in her eyes Calandryll read sadness that their reunion should be so brief. She gave no other sign, but turned to Ochen, bowing, and said, "I bid you welcome, as always, wazir."
"And I you, Lady," the old man returned, answering her bow with his own. "And ask your forgiveness that this visit be so hurried, and we with much to attend while we are here."
"Better a short visit and a long peace," she murmured, and turned her tawny eyes on the questers.
"Baths are prepared, and chambers. I trust you will find the attire selected pleasing."
Calandryll said, "We are in your debt, Lady Nyka."
"No." She shook her head. "Rather say that we stand in your debt, for what you attempt. Do you leave your animals here, they shall be well attended."
"I've no doubt of that," returned Calandryll with a smile, "but I suspect your servants had rather we executed that duty. And it is our custom to attend our own mounts."
"Aye." When she smiled she seemed scarce old enough to have borne three children. "They are somewhat in awe of your great beasts, especially the stallion. Be it your custom then, I'll have a man await you, and when you are done, he shall bring you to the baths and your quarters."
"Our thanks," he replied, and bowed again.
She clapped her hands and a servant, dressed in a tunic of russet silk and yellow pantaloons, came forward. She spoke briefly, the man bowed and turned toward the guests, his face held carefully composed, as if the arrival of foreigners fluent in his tongue was an everyday occurrence.
"Do you follow me, honored gentlefolk?"
Calandryll paused, looking to Ochen, and the wazir nodded, saying that he would find his own quarters and meet them later, with the gijan.
They saw their mounts bedded down and followed the servant out, across the atrium again, and through a low doorway into a hall, up dim-lit stairs that climbed steadily higher to the topmost level of the building. The servant—Kore, Calandryll learned was his name—bowed them each into adjoining chambers, waiting patiently as they stowed their gear in cabinets of inlaid rosewood, their weapons on racks, before bringing them to separate bathhouses, whose ceilings were great panes of glass that offered a view of the sky as they luxuriated in near-boiling water, soaps scented with sandalwood removing the grime accrued on their journey. More servants, these in short white robes, gathered to douse them with cold water when they emerged, offering afterward huge towels of soft cotton that they would have applied themselves, had Calandryll and Bracht not chosen to perform that task unaided.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 33