He turned to his companions, needing to speak before dread clogged his mouth, before the enormity of what he knew they must do became too daunting.
"Then do we sit here debating, or do we go on?"
Katya's eyes met his, lit stormy grey: "Through the gate?"
"After Rhythamun."
"We took a vow in Tezin-dar," said Bracht. "I'd not renege my given word."
"Aye, we did," Katya said, and smiled a cold smile. "And so we go on."
Calandryll turned to Cennaire, and she said, "I go where you go."
"Then"—he encompassed the wazir-narimasu in his gaze—"do you bring us to this gate? Swift, ere Rhythamun has chance to employ the Arcanum's gramaryes."
The sorcerers glanced one to the other, hesitant, their expressions ranging from disbelief to naked wonder. Zedu drew a nervous hand down the silver length of his beard and said, "No mortal man has ever returned from that place beyond the gate. Do you venture there, it may well be you go to your deaths."
"And if we do not go through?" Calandryll fixed the mage with angry, urgent eyes. "Shall we wait here to bid Tharn welcome? Does Rhythamun succeed and the Mad God be raised, I think our lives shall not be very long. Save, perhaps, in count of suffering, for Rhythamun has sworn to take his revenge of us."
His voice was flat, filled with a deadly calm: Zedu and all his fellows flinched at its lash. Zedu asked, "Be you set on this course?" Another said, "Dare we risk the opening of the gate? Is Tharn raised, it were better that portal be held shut." And then another: "Be Tharn raised, think you we can hold the gate closed?" And another: "This is a decision for all, in council."
"Shall you sit debating while Rhythamun goes to his master?" The table shuddered under the impact of Bracht's fist. Blue eyes flung a challenge at the sorcerers. "Shall you talk out the hours to the Mad God's raising?"
Katya made no physical gesture, but her voice was a goad, like a storm wind blowing: "From Vanu I came, to deliver the Arcanum to destruction. The world I've traveled on that quest. It does not end here!"
Calandryll turned to Ochen. "In Dera's name, in Horul's name, do you persuade them? We've no time now to lose!"
The ancient wazir seemed borne down by what he had heard, sunk beneath an awful weight of despondency, sitting slumped, his eyes closed as if he fought back tears. For a moment Calandryll thought his words had gone unheard, but then Ochen's eyes opened and he shuddered, as if waking from a bad dream. He raised his head, staring down the length of the table, and nodded.
"You are the wisest, the greatest, of us all," he said, and though his voice was soft, still it carried, clear in all their ears, "and I only a wazir, not one of you. But this I tell you—that these four have walked with gods, and go about the business of the Younger Gods,- foreordained are they to this purpose. They alone may defeat Rhythamun; they alone may prevent Tharn's resurrection. Do you stand in their way, you stand condemned by Horul and all his kindred gods. Do you delay them, do you not give what aid you may, then in Horul's name I tell you that you league with Tharn!"
There came a murmuring from the wazir- narimasu at that, a susurration of affront and outrage, support and dissent. Calandryll stared about, wild-eyed in his impatience, thinking that did he but know the location of the gate he would go there, fight his way there if need be. It seemed the minutes ticked out in long ages, each one taking Rhythamun a step closer to his fell goal: he ground his teeth in frustration, roundly damning the sorcerers' vacillation. Bracht sat raw-featured in his anger, Katya tense beside him, lightning in her grey eyes,- Cennaire sat still and solemn, a hand unnoticed on Calandryll's arm.
Then Zedu motioned for silence, raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub. "Does Ochen speak the truth, he's every right to address us so, and we do, indeed, stand condemned." Argument died, the wazir-narimasu turning toward their elected spokesman. Zedu paused, the chamber falling silent, "And I believe him. Ere long—do we survive—he shall be counted among our numbers, and I've no doubt but that he speaks aright. I cast my vote in favor—I say we bring these folk to the gate, and swift."
"And what of those others who've say in this?" demanded one dissident. "Shall their voices not be heard?"
"They man our defenses," said Zedu. "We've not the time, I think."
"We've not the right to make such decisions save in full convocation," the other argued. "Let runners be sent to them."
It looked to Calandryll that argument should erupt afresh, that proposal and counter should tick and took the minutes out until the dialogue be ended by Tharn's coming. In his ear he heard Bracht hiss, "Ahrd! Be these the wisest of all Jesserytes? They babble like children, squabbling out the world's ending." He nodded, grunting helpless agreement, and turned to Ochen.
"Might you not bring us to the gate alone?"
Ochen shook his head wearily, and said, "To the gate, were we not halted. But not through it—I've not the cantrips of opening, and seven are needed for that task."
Calandryll groaned, returning his attention to the debate in time to hear Zedu declare, "Do we send runners then time wastes. And do we summon all here, who shall maintain the gramaryes of protection? I tell you we must forgo convention and agree this thing among ourselves, now."
A supporter said, "Aye! And my vote is cast with Zedu, with Ochen."
"Ochen's not a vote in this," returned the quib- bler.
Ochen seemed then to summon an inner strength. He rose to his feet, straight-backed, his voice a tocsin, commanding. "Nay, I've not a vote, save that which every being in this sad world of ours has—to choose betwixt the Younger Gods and Tharn—and that I cast for Horul and his kin. Nay, I'm not among your number—and be this the manner of your governance, the way of your counsels, I'd not deem it any great honor, for I perceive you little different to ordinary folk. This brave Kern has said it—They babble like children, squabbling out the world's ending/ Horul, already you've admitted yourselves duped by the Mad God's servant, let him pass through the gate! And now you sit quarreling like fishwives as he draws ever closer to his master." He paused, the eyes that ranged the wazir- narimasu glinting tawny, furious, subduing them so that none voiced objection or interrupted, as if they sat transfixed by his wrath. "I say again—your vacillation serves only Tharn's purpose! I tell you— bring these brave folk to the gate and send them through! They'd chance their lives, and more, to save this sorry world of ours, while you . . . You'd quibble and debate matters of protocol as the world falls down about your ears. You'd argue pro and con until the Mad God walks our world. Send them through, I tell you! Put an end to this fainthearted caution and send them through!"
His oration ended on a shout, after it a long silence, broken at last by Zedu.
"I say we heed Ochen's words. We stand censured, and I say we send them through the gate."
From around the table came sundry eager Ayes, then slower agreement from the more hesitant, until only a handful remained objecting, and they finally swayed by their fellows, so that concord was at last reached.
"You'd go now?" asked Zedu, looking from one to the next.
The questers looked in turn at one another, and it seemed to Calandryll they stood at the brink of a precipice, an aethyric chasm far greater, far deeper, than even the Kess Imbrun. To leap into that rift was to suffer only physical wreckage,- the step he knew they would take now promised far worse. He saw Bracht's fierce, grim smile,- Katya's resolution writ firm on her lovely face. He found Cennaire's hand and met her eyes, saw her nod. "Aye," he said, speaking for them all. "We'd go now."
"Then may Horul and all his kin walk with you," said Zedu, rising. "Do you follow and we'll bring you there."
BACK then, descending stairways, traversing corridors, until they came once more to ground level and passed out into the plaza, the wazir-narimasu a bustling throng of color about them, Ochen beckoning them close, speaking urgently as they went.
"I'd have had more time to verse you the better in matters occult. But . . . Remember those lessons
you've had, Calandryll. That knowledge should stand you firm, do you but call on that power within you. Remember, all of you, that you are as one, a gestalt where you go. And you've that blade that Dera blessed . . . there's power in that. Horul, but I'd have had more time . . . No matter,- fate decides. Katya, you've the mirror? Aye? Excellent."
The roiling mutter of thunder drowned out his words, and through one narrow window cut into the wall of the corridor they hurried down, Calandryll saw malign crimson lightning engulf the sky, momentarily dimming the blue radiance that domed the teng. A dreadful wind, noisome, gusted, sending the beacon fires along the ramparts to streaming lines of turbulent flame. A second embrasure revealed scintillating tendrils of blue that wavered under the wash of red, trembling, assailed, but then interweaving to reestablish the protective vault.
They passed along a loggia where the colonnades and the roof trembled, quivering under the sonic impact of thunder. Across the sky passed bolts of man-made lightning, fireballs hurled from the besiegers' catapults, some consumed by the blue radiance, a few landing in showers of sparks and gouts of flame on rooftops or streets. And all the time, through the rattle of the thunder and the eerie howling of unnatural wind, Ochen spoke, as if he would, urgently, impress upon them what knowledge was his to impart, remind them of all he had given, and all they had learned.
"Remember what the gijan, what Kyama, scried: 'You may succeed—it is within your power.' "
Calandryll held silent his memory of her subsequent words: "Or you may not—victory is within the power of your enemies."
"Remember," Ochen continued as they crossed the plaza, "that 'one may, unwitting, aid you, and be that so, his wrath shall be great. 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.' "
Bracht said, "Trust we have now—the rest remains a riddle still."
"Aye, perhaps," said Ochen as a door was opened and they plunged into a lightless corridor, "I'd hoped the wazir-narimasu should enlarge on that. Oh, Horul, had we only more time!"
"We've not," said Calandryll bluntly, seeing a torch flare ahead, shedding scant radiance along the gloomy passage. "Do you give us your interpretation?"
"I've wondered what it should be," Ochen returned, and fell silent awhile as they descended a narrow stairwell, the walls cold and smooth, pressing close.
The stairs ended in a low-ceilinged chamber that smelled of ancient stone, unused, a metal door black at the farther side. Zedu went to it and pressed his palms against the surface, murmuring, the words filling the chamber with the scent of almonds. Six of the wazir-narimasu followed him in turn, and then he grasped a ring and swung the door open, speaking again so that pale, achromatic light, sourceless, illumined a farther descent.
"You've two enemies, I think," Ochen said. "Rhythamun and Anomius."
"This is not," Bracht remarked over his shoulder, wryly, "unknown to us."
"But perhaps the one might be turned against the other." Ochen's voice faded as the stairway angled, returning as it straightened, falling ever deeper beneath Anwar-teng: " 'One may, unwitting, aid you.' "
"How?" asked Calandryll.
"I know not." Ochen sighed. "Only that I've sensed some design in Cennaire's presence since first I met her. What else did Kyama say? Aye, that's it—'You shall need also that power one of you commands, and that another holds.' "
"I've my sword," Calandryll said, "and whatever power you say rests in me."
"And Bracht's Ahrd's sap in his veins," said Katya. "Might that be it?"
"I cannot say for sure." Ochen shook his head ruefully. "Perhaps. And there's power in Cennaire, too,- both that Anomius gave her, and some knowledge of magic."
Another door then, ensorcelled, again opened by seven of the wazir-narimasu. As they voiced their cantrips, Cennaire said, "I've those enhancements revenancy gives me, but what use shall they be where we go? And magic? I know that gramarye of transportation Anomius taught me, and that which works the mirror, none others."
"Time, time," Ochen muttered. "Had I only pondered more on this ..."
"And none now," said Calandryll as Zedu led the way down yet another steep stairs, his magic once more conjuring wan radiance to light their passage. "Save we descend into the very belly of the world."
"Perhaps it's enough," Ochen murmured. "The power in you, the sword; Ahrd's sap in Bracht's veins,- those gramaryes Cennaire commands. You've the mirror still, Katya?"
"Aye," answered the Vanu woman, tension leeching her voice of amusement. "I've not lost it betwixt your last asking and now."
"Forgive me." Ochen shook his head, speaking absentmindedly.
The stairs ended in a final chamber, carved from the bedrock on which Anwar-teng stood, doorless save for the entryway, lit only by that glow Zedu's magicks produced. Doorless, but—to eyes become familiar with such portals—gated. It was a small chamber, cubic, crowded with the press of bodies, the farther wall decorated around all its edges with sigils, those seeming to vibrate and pulse with insensate life, as if they fought unseen pressure from an unseen place. Between them stood plain stone, and it seemed that from the stone, oozing from its lithic pores, came a miasma that struggled with the surrounding cantrips, seeking release, seeking to penetrate the mortal world, as if occult powers pressed hard against the barrier.
Zedu said, "This is the gate. This is the reason Anwar-teng was built—to hold it closed."
Bracht said, "A pity you failed to guard it better."
Calandryll said, "Do you work your magicks then? And send us through?"
Zedu nodded. Calandryll took Cennaire's hand and said, "But first I'd ask a boon of you."
The wazir-narimasu ducked his head: "Be it in our power, it is yours."
"I'd ask," Calandryll said, "that do we return safe, you bend all your occult skills to restoring Cennaire her heart. Likely you know her for a revenant—if not, Ochen shall recount the story— and I'd have you make her again mortal."
As had Ochen before him, so Zedu hesitated, looking to Cennaire. "You'd have this?" he asked.
"I would," she said. "Do we return; be it in your power."
"What you ask is not done easily," he warned, "if it can be done at all. There's danger in it—the possibility of failure. Better, perhaps, that you remain as you are."
"No!" Cennaire's voice was firm. Her grip tightened on Calandryll's hand. "I'd have back my heart and be once more mortal, no matter the danger."
"As you wish." Zedu ducked his head. "Do you return safe, then you've my word we'll attempt it."
The answer was not so confident as Calandryll would have wished, and he feared he saw doubt on Zedu's face, but there was no time left for further questioning. "Then we've a battle to fight, do you send us to it," he said, and unsheathed the straightsword.
He drew Cennaire to his side. Bracht and Katya moved close, blades naked, ready.
Ochen said, "Horul go with you, my brave friends. I await your safe return."
Calandryll smiled grim thanks as Zedu and his fellow mages commenced their cantrip.
The chant mounted in volume and the sigils blazed bright as the perfume of almonds filled the chamber. It seemed the primordial stone of the wall blurred then, melting into an absence, beyond which lay nothing save a terrible darkness. The blade of Calandryll's sword seemed to flicker as if possessed of independent life as foulness gusted from the vacuum before him, a corpse-breath venting. He glanced sidelong at his comrades, seeing their faces set grim, resolute, and knew his own held a matching expression. He paced a step forward, toward the limbo beyond the stone, beyond mortal ken. It seemed to beckon. It seemed a maw waiting to devour them. The chamber faded from his sight, Ochen, the wazir-narimasu, with it. He heard Bracht say, "So, do we stand here watching? Or do we bring the fight to Rhythamun?"
And he laughed, wild, and walked into the darkness of the void.
17
UNLIK
E the gates that had brought them to and from Tezin-dar, this. Those transitions through the interstices of the worlds, mundane and occult, had been mercifully brief. Not so this passage: this was a descent into a vortex of turbulent color, incandescent, blood that was fire, fire that was blood, crimson and scarlet, vermilion, carmine, a sanguine spectrum, as if they were swallowed by some inconceivably vast beast, a creature of nonsubstance down whose gullet they were sucked, microbes in its immensity. There was heat: a roaring, pulsing holocaust, fervid, sucking air from straining lungs, forcing tongues of leeching flame down seared throats, melting, it seemed—it felt—the pulpy matter of eyeballs, devouring the organs the probing flames searched out. And stench: a fetor of moldering flesh, putrid and corrupt, mephitic, unendurable in nostrils that surely must be roasted, watering eyes that must surely be liquescent tears on unfleshed bone. Hope was redundant here: an abstraction, meaningless, impotent in this transition of agony. Neither did time any longer exist: there was only the eternal now of the gate's imposed suffering.
Then recognizable pain, as when burned flesh encounters ice, solidity cold beneath them, startling in its immediacy, freezing air upon their faces, fire and flame replaced with utter cold, with black and white that whirled around them, stinging with myriad pinprick blows.
Calandryll groaned, levering himself upright, the straightsword a crutch as his head spun and tormented muscles threatened to forgo their duty, to pitch him down, loose-limbed and helpless as a babe. Willpower alone held him up, his head turning slowly, sight returning slower. The very air hung white about him, freckling darkness. He sucked in great lungfuls, gasping as his lips and tongue and throat burned afresh, seared now by cold's fire. He squinted, surveying this shadow world, and saw nothing save the whiteness, the darkness. He turned from it, finding Cennaire rising tottery to her feet, her raven hair all dusted white. He offered her his hand, but she it was supported him, lending him her revenant strength, so that for a while they clung together, then went to where Bracht and Katya clambered, looking to one another for aid, to their feet. For a little while their memories of that dreadful passage warmed them, then the cruel immediacy of the present intruded and they shivered, chilled numb, each breath painful.
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