They found their own clothes gone when they returned to the outer chamber where Kore waited, explaining their leathers were taken to be cleaned and should be delivered to their quarters ere night fell. As temporary replacement he offered loosefitting robes of dark blue, and soft slippers, that they donned for the walk back to their chambers.
"Do you find the clothing the Lady Nyka has selected unsuitable," Kore murmured at the door, "then I shall bring you more. Do you require aught else, you need but ask—I shall await you here."
He bowed, watching as they each went into their room.
Calandryll explored his quarters, marveling that the interiors of these Jesseryte buildings should be so different to their dull exteriors. The floor was constructed of some highly polished wood, warm underfoot and scattered with thick rugs of brilliant colors, a wide bed covered with a blue and scarlet spread occupied the center, at its foot a padded stool. There was a washstand, and a small table of rosewood, inlaid like the cabinet, held a decanter and four goblets of delicate ruby crystal. The walls were hung with sheets of soft green silk that lent the chamber the feeling of an airy tent, save that it was dim, the only sources of illumination the single lantern suspended from the white plaster ceiling and the tall, glass-paneled doors that opened onto the balcony running the length of the outside wall. He crossed to that, noticing with a thrill of excitement that the balcony gave access to Cennaire's room, and with surprise that the roof he could see across the width of the atrium was a garden, filled with small, exotic trees, shrubbery, and vines that wound about little pergolas. He returned inside to dress, thinking that the nature of Jesseryte architecture reflected the personality of these mysterious folk.
Clad in the borrowed outfit, he inspected himself in the mirrored panels mounted in the cabinet. As in the keep, a shirt, a tunic, pantaloons, and boots had been provided, though here, in Chazali's home, the outfit was far grander. The shirt was silk, of a white so brilliant it seemed to sparkle even in the poor illumination of the chamber; the pantaloons were dark blue, faintly iridescent; the boots of soft, black hide, sewn with silver, the toes curling upward to points,- the tunic was of a green akin to the drapery of the walls, bulked out at the shoulders and fastened around his waist with a golden sash. A jet horse pranced within a circle of crimson on chest and back, the perimeter of the disk embroidered with the emblems of the Nakoti Makusen. It felt strange to wear such finery: he had grown accustomed to his leathers.
He turned from his examination as a fist pounded the door, opening it to greet Bracht, the Kern dressed in similar fashion and no more comfortable than before.
"I'd feel happier had I my own plain gear," Bracht grumbled, crossing to the table to fill a glass. "Still, their wine is palatable."
Calandryll followed him, taking a goblet for himself. "We sojourn here but the single night," he said. "And after, I doubt we'll enjoy such hospitality again."
Bracht grunted a noncommittal reply and wandered to the balcony. The day waned fast, the sky still heavy with louring cloud, the square below almost lost in the burgeoning shadows. The chambers situated about the surrounding walls showed as dim rectangles, emitting a low babble of sound. The Kern returned inside, filling his glass afresh as he shook his head in puzzlement.
"These are curious folk, these Jesserytes," he remarked. "Ahrd, but to see these places from the outside . . . Yet behind their walls, they live in palaces. But so dim."
"It's their way." Calandryll chuckled as Bracht set down his goblet to fidget with sash and tunic. "And tomorrow you shall have your own plain gear back, and ride the open country again."
'Praise Ahrd for that," the Kern muttered.
A discreet tapping brought them both to the door. Kore stood there. "Forgive me," he murmured blandly, "but the wazir Ochen Tajen Makusen requests your presence."
"A moment."
Calandryll went to the table, setting down his goblet. Bracht's was already there and they quit the chamber, each going to a woman's room, knocking.
Cennaire's voice answered Calandryll: "Enter."
He opened the door and halted on the threshold, gape-mouthed. In leather riding gear she was lovely,- in the robe provided in the keep she had been splendid. Now—he could only stare, wideeyed, lost for words. Her hair was piled up and fastened with jeweled pins that sparkled against the black, emphasizing the slender column of her neck. Her eyes were outlined in the Jesseryte fashion with kohl, her lips and nails with bright crimson. She wore a high-collared robe of pale pink silk that seemed to flow over the contours of her body, fastened with tiny amethyst buttons, the hem and sleeves embroidered with a red that matched her cosmetics, slippers of pink visible beneath. She would, he thought, grace any palace; and then thought to tell her so.
"Thank you, my lord," she said with mock formality, performing an adroit curtsy.
Calandryll was about to reply in kind when Bracht's loud cry of "Ahrd!" brought his head around. He saw the Kern gaping at Katya. The Vanu woman was coiffured as was Cennaire, her piled flaxen hair all set with pins of jet. Her robe was a pale blue, her lips and nails a roseate pink. Bracht stood shaking his head and muttering "Ahrd!" as if he could think of no other word.
"The Lady Nyka sent a hairdresser to us," Cennaire explained. "And a woman skillful with cosmetics."
"They did you justice," declared Calandryll, regaining a measure of composure, "though their task was surely easy for what they had to work with."
Katya heard the compliment and studied Bracht with a mock haughty expression. "Do you perhaps take lessons from Calandryll?" she suggested.
The Kern could only nod, wide-eyed, his jaw dropped. "I ..." he spluttered. "Ahrd! I . . . You . . . Never ..."
His embarrassment was alleviated by Kore, who coughed diplomatically, reminding them that Ochen awaited their presence. Calandryll offered his arm to Cennaire as if at court, and Bracht, after a moment's hesitation, did the same to Katya. The Vanu woman chuckled as they proceeded down the twilight corridor, calling over her shoulder to Calandryll, "Do we have time along the way, perhaps you'll attempt to school this barbarian in his manners."
"A difficult task," he answered, "but I'll do my best."
At his side, Cennaire leaned closer and whispered, "You've noticed the balcony?"
Calandryll felt his cheeks grow warm, unsure whether embarrassment or excitement caused the flush. "I have," he said.
"It's not so chill a night my windows need be closed," she murmured, and he returned her, "Lady, I shall be there."
"Good." She pressed a moment against him, smiling, then drew apart as Kore halted and tapped on a door, calling through it that they were arrived.
They entered a chamber set with a food-laden table, the wazir seated at the farther end. Calandryll saw that candelabra had been placed about the room, as if in deference to the guests, and that the table was set with six places. Ochen motioned them to the stools set either side and dismissed the waiting Kore.
When the door was closed he said, "I thought perhaps it better we should eat here, alone. Chazali and Nyka have little enough time together, and I'd introduce you to the gijan."
As if that cue had been rehearsed a figure came in from the balcony. Calandryll assumed it a female figure because she wore a robe of black, high- throated and sewn with silver horseheads, the argent a match with her hair, that piled up like Katya's and Cennaire's, fixed in place with sable pins. Her face gave little indication of her sex, being both devoid of cosmetic and webbed with even more wrinkles than Ochen's. She seemed so old as to have somehow passed beyond the definitions of gender, though beneath snow-white brows her eyes glinted with intelligent light. When she spoke, her voice was a rustling whisper that seemed too soft to be heard so well.
"I am the gijan Kyama," she announced. “Ochen tells me you’d have a scrying of me.”
Calandryll said, "Aye, do you agree.”
"Readily.” She laughed, and the sound was a twinkling as of silver bells. "But first, do we eat? And you
shall tell me all you've done to bring you here."
She took the empty place, at the table's farther end, facing Ochen, who filled a glass with wine and passed the decanter to Calandryll. It rounded the table, back to the wazir, before the gijan spoke again.
"So, you come together from the world's four corners," she rustled. "The first outlanders to visit Pamur-teng, or any other hold. Do you tell me this tale from its beginning?"
Calandryll nodded, and glanced toward Bracht, to Katya, both of them indicating he should speak on their behalf.
When he was done, the food was almost gone, and none there wished for more. He drank a glass, his mouth somewhat dry from the recital, and awaited Kyama's response.
She studied him awhile in silence, her face so mapped with lines he could read nothing there, then turned her attention slowly to the others. He thought perhaps she weighed them, each in turn, and that this was a very different manner of scrying than was practiced by the spaewives of Lysse or Kandahar. The silence stretched out: none spoke, only waited on her.
Finally she said, "Ochen, do you call a man to clear this table?"
Calandryll had anticipated some weightier pronouncement, not so prosaic a request, and he found he must struggle not to frown and ask her what she had discerned from her lengthy examination. Ochen, however, appeared to find nothing odd, and rose, going to the door, two servants on his heels as he retook his place.
All waited in silence as the debris of their meal was removed, only a single decanter and their glasses left behind. Then, when the last plate was taken away and the door closed on the departing servants, the gijan said, "So, now I've knowledge of your past—do we look toward your future?"
Beneath the level of the table's edge, the movement hidden, Cennaire took Calandryll's hand, finding courage in the contact. It felt, for all she knew she bore no heart, but only what Anomius had put there in its place, that the organ pounded a fierce drumbeat against her ribs. She felt her mouth go dry and with her free hand raised her glass to her lips. It was a conscious effort to stay the trembling that threatened to spill the ruby vintage over her robe, for she believed she fast approached a crossroads in her destiny, and that what this ancient woman scried in her, and all of them there present, should likely decide her future. Carefully, she set the goblet down, grateful for the pressure of Calandryll's fingers and the confident smile he turned toward her.
It was a confidence he did not, entirely, feel, but rather an attempt to reassure the woman he loved. No less himself: as did Cennaire, he felt the future hung now in balance, and he voiced a silent prayer to Dera—to all the Younger Gods—that this scrying give him what he wanted to hear.
"What must we do?" he asked, pleased that his voice came clear, unsullied by the trepidation that knotted in his throat.
"Do you each take one another's hand," Kyama said. "Ochen's no part in this, but only you four."
They did as she bade, Calandryll lifting the hand he still clutched from under the table, reaching across to take Katya's, she taking Bracht's, the Kern and Cennaire each reaching toward the ancient spaewife.
"I know not how this is done in those lands you come from," she said, "but here I'd ask you remain silent while I trance. What questions you may have I'll answer later, as best I may. Now ..."
She closed her eyes, head tilting back, the dry, creased skin of her throat stretching taut. For a while she was still, then she began to rock gently, and to chant, little more than a murmur, too low the words might be discerned. With Ochen's lessons to aid him, Calandryll understood this was not sorcery but rather communication with the inosculation of fate's skeins, the gijan imbued with that particular talent that granted her knowledge of the intertwining network of her clients' destinies. Such vision of the future was limited, both by the ability of the spaewife and the complexity of the web she sought to observe. He waited, nervous.
Kyama's droning chant ended abruptly. Her head fell forward, chin to chest, then snapped back, upright, her eyes still closed as she spoke, her voice no longer a rustle, but deeper, louder.
"You four take a hazardous road. Do you follow that path to its end you shall face dangers unimaginable . . . Dangers worse than plain death, even for that one of you who owns no heart. Powers move against you, to thwart you and destroy you. They'd have their revenge of you, those powers. And they are mighty . . . Greater than any one of you, though together, four, you are perhaps strong enough.
"I cannot see so far. Those you'd defeat, those you oppose—who oppose you—cloud my vision. The strands run out into darkness, but for a little way your purpose sheds light. You may succeed—it is within your power. Or you may not—victory is within the power of your enemies.
"They are several, your enemies. One is close, the others distant. One may, unwitting, aid you, and be that so, his wrath shall be great. Keep your wits about you, do you go where likely you must. Strength, sword skill, shall not alone be enough, you shall need also that power one of you commands, and that another holds. Trust—let trust be the keystone of your union. Without trust you become nothing and shall be defeated.
"No more do I see. It is too dark, too complex. The strands entwine, a maze. I . . . No! Too late. There is no more."
Kyama's head fell forward again, her body limp. A thin streamer of spittle hung from between lips gone slack. Her hands loosed their hold and she would have pitched facedown against the table had Bracht not moved to halt her. She moaned softly, stirring, and Cennaire brought a goblet to her mouth.
The gijan sipped, then swallowed stronger, and murmured her thanks, straightening on the faldstool. She looked from one to the next, her eyes again bright.
"Did you hear that which you wished to hear?"
"That we are four," Calandryll said, looking at Cennaire, "aye."
He turned his gaze on Bracht, who shrugged and found sufficient grace to smile shamefaced and say,
“You're owed an apology, Cennaire, and that I offer."
"And I accept," she answered. "Gratefully."
"But," the Kern added, turning toward Kyama, "there's much I fail to comprehend. You spoke of several enemies, and those I think we know— Rhythamun, Tharn himself, Anomius—but which may unwitting aid us?"
The gijan shaped a gesture of helplessness: "I cannot say. Only that do you use your wits you may deceive one to your advantage."
"And the powers we command?" asked Calandryll. "You spoke of two with power."
"There is power in you all," she answered. "The power vested in you burned bright, and that shall be both beacon and blade in your battle. But the other . . . that was darker and I could not clearly see in which of your companions it lies."
Across the table Bracht exhaled slowly and murmured under his breath, "Riddles."
Kyama laughed at that and said, "This talent of mine is no precise thing, warrior. It is not like your sword, to be drawn and used as you command, to strike where you'd put your cut. I look into a shifting, tangled future, and what I see I tell you. But those skeins I'd follow turn and twist and are not always easy to track. Were you four simple folk looking to forecast your destinies, then I could give you plain answers. But you are not; you go against a god, and you've such enemies as can turn fate on its head. That makes my task the harder."
"But we are now four?" Calandryll said. "And should trust one another."
"Do you forgo trust," Kyama replied firmly, "then you are not four, and only be you four may you hope to achieve victory. That much I read clear."
Calandryll smiled and took Cennaire's hand, openly now.
She offered him a smile in answer and looked to the gijan. "You know me for a revenant, no?" It was easier, now, to say it, though still she felt a pang of trepidation, fearing the response should not be that she wished. "Shall I get back my heart? Shall I become again what I was?"
The ancient spaewife paused a moment, then reached out to pat Cennaire's left hand where it rested, clenched, on the table, the gesture reminiscent of a grandmother com
forting a nervous daughter. "Already you are not what once you were, but something better," she said. "I think perhaps the Younger Gods have touched you, and taken from you your sins. But more than that I cannot tell you, for of all the skeins I saw, yours was the most tangled. I am sorry, child, but whether you shall win back your heart, or no, I cannot say."
She paused then, and Calandryll, intent on all she said, thought perhaps she frowned—so furrowed was her face he could not tell for sure. Then: "You've a part to play, though, and that of great importance. Of that much I am certain, but I cannot tell you, precisely, what or how."
"Do you tell us shall we be together at the end?" he asked.
"The end?" Kyama spread wide her hands. "There are too many ends, each one dependent on the steps taken before." She glanced an instant at Ochen: "I thought you'd schooled him better, old friend." Then to Calandryll again: "Do you not understand? What we gijans scry is nothing fixed, but a changing pattern. Had this warrior of Cuan na'For not elected to welcome this woman as a comrade, your quest might well have failed, for she's vital to it. Did she elect to remain safe here, as you once suggested, you'd have little hope of victory. Should some rebel slay this warrior woman of Vanu, the future shifts.
"I do not tell you what must be, but what may be. That is the nature of my art. And you four oppose such enemies as make my task the harder— you go against a god, and gods, even dreaming, own such power as can change the future. All well, then aye—you shall be together at the end. And Cennaire shall have back her heart, and you shall deliver the Arcanum to Vanu's holy men, who shall destroy it, and Vanu shall be wed to Cuan na'For, Kandahar with Lysse, and all shall, as those who spin tales for our children have it, live happy after.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 34