He reached down, using the hem of the golden robe to cleanse his sword, sheathed the steel, and turned to his companions.
Cennaire came into his arms, holding him tight, so that he thought a moment that his ribs should break.
"I feared you should be slain,” she said against his mouth, and he answered, “I feared you should die, and that I could not bear.”
For long heartbeats nothing else existed, only they two, embracing, and then Bracht's voice intruded.
“We’ve the Arcanum now, and our enemies slain. Do we flee this fell place, then, ere it fall down and trap us here?”
Calandryll moved back from the circle of Cennaire's arms, seeing the chamber no longer glorious, but dismal, the sorry crypt of his earlier, brief vision, the resplendent sarcophagus only a poor stone cist now. The cavern shuddered, dust and fragments of rock falling from the gloomy roof, the cracks that striated the jagged floor widening by the moment. He said, "Aye,” and they ran toward the egress.
Outside, the bloody moat was become a narrow stream that sprang from an outcrop of blue-grey granite. Clean water ran there, and the brook was easily jumped, beyond it pristine grass, verdant under a benign sun. They moved away, looking back as stone groaned, seeing the cave's mouth collapse, sealed under an impassable weight of rock. Calandryll thought he heard a shriek of rage, of disappointment, then, but it might only have been the sound of falling stone. He turned his back to the tomb and took Cennaire's hand, seeing Bracht and Katya walking arm in arm, the Kern reaching out to take Cennaire's elbow, all of them smiling as they strode across the lush grass.
"I trust," Bracht called, "that you've a way to return us to Anwar-teng. Or perhaps direct to Vanu."
"To Anwar-teng, I hope," Calandryll replied, "for we've a boon to claim of the wazir-narimasu."
He felt Cennaire's grip tighten on his hand and elation was tainted with doubt. The battle was won, Rhythamun defeated and the world saved from the Mad God, but that should be a soured victory could Cennaire not gain back her heart. He thought on that incertitude he had heard in Zedu's voice, heard expressed clear in Ochen's words, and wondered if there was yet a price to pay, disappointment waiting drear to transform triumph to loss. He forced a smile: he could not allow the uncertainty he felt expression on his face or in his voice. It must be possible they return her heart! After all this, it must be possible!
"How shall you do it?" asked Katya. "Have you such magic?"
He frowned then, and shook his head, sudden alarm startling his heart. "I've not the least idea," he said, wondering if they must remain here, prisoners of the aethyr.
Cennaire said, "Is that not a gate?"
They looked to where she pointed: proud from the grass, where none had stood before, rose a framework of roseate stone, great upright megaliths surmounted by bulky lintel, within their aegis not darkness, but a spectrum of colors, welcoming.
Calandryll said, "Aye, I believe it is," and they walked toward the portal.
18
The worlds, no icy wastes or hostile guardians, nor any pain: it seemed as though, Tharn's threat ended, the aethyric passageways grew calm. They stepped together into the gate, there was a moment of nullity, a brief sensation of timeless descent, and then they stood inside the subterranean chamber, deep beneath Anwar-teng. The sigils decorating the grey stone blazed an instant as if in farewell, and then faded, leaving only bare rock behind, the scent of almonds dissipating as the gate closed forever. They tottered, disorientated, clutching at one another for support. The chamber was cool and lit with a soft golden glow from candles that burned with an even flame, unmelting. They lit the startled face of Ochen, rising from a faldstool, his slit- ted eyes opening wide, soon followed by a mouth that stretched in a smile of welcome, his wrinkles creasing in joy.
"Praise Horul! Praise all the Younger Gods! You return." He came toward them, arms flung wide as if he would encompass them all in his embrace. "We feared you slain, the battle lost. But then— Horul, it was a wonder! A sign you triumphed! No, wait, doubtless you're wearied. Do I bring you to where you may tell your tale in comfort? You'd take wine? Food? Horul, but I'd hear everything."
His words tumbled out, spilling one over the other in his eagerness, his relief, even as his hands went from one to the other, touching as if he would reassure himself living creatures came back. Bracht asked, his voice carefully inquiring, "Did you doubt our return then?"
Ochen laughed, the sound like triumphant bells tolling victory, and answered, "For a while, aye. Horul, my friends, you've been a while gone."
"How long?" asked Calandryll as the wazir ushered them from the chamber, pausing only to lift the warding spells. "Surely but a few days."
"Weeks, more like," said Ochen as they climbed the narrow stairs. "We've taken turn and turn about, waiting by the gate. Some gave you up— thought you dead, or trapped."
"But you spoke of a sign," Calandryll said.
"Aye—that the battle was won." The silvered head turned back, twinkling eyes regarding them fondly. "That was clear enough, but not that you survived it. Horul, the hours I've spent seeking sign that you lived!"
"We do," Bracht-called, his voice echoing cheerful off the walls, "but where we went there was no wine. You spoke of wine?"
"That I did." Ochen's laughter rang loud in answer. "And those who'd hear your tale. So, do I curb my tongue ere you grow bored with the telling?"
"Save first you tell of this sign," Calandryll asked.
"Aye." Ochen nodded, solemn a moment. "Thus it was: the armies out of Pamur-teng and Ozali- teng converged, poised to attack. The lines were drawn—there should have been such bloodshed!— but then . . . Then it was as if the rebels woke from a dream, as if the blindfold of Tharn's deceit was lifted. Their leaders sued for peace. They pleaded for it! They threw themselves on our mercy, some fell on their swords,* their wazirs declared themselves beguiled. Praise Horul—praise you!—there were but few lives lost in skirmishes. They struck their camp and e'en now march homeward. Then we knew you were victorious, that the Mad God was defeated."
He paused as they emerged into a courtyard. Overhead a pale sun hung in a steel-blue sky, not long risen. The air was crisp, devoid of magic's scent or the chill of unnatural winter; instead, autumn perfumed the clean air. Folk stared, leaving their tasks, converging on the group as they strode across the yard, cheering as they entered a building where more Jesserytes watched in awe.
"We knew that victory won," Ochen continued as they climbed stairs, "but when you were not then returned . . . Horul! Then I began to fear your victory pyrrhic. Weeks passed ..."
"It seemed to us no more than a little while," Calandryll murmured. "A day or two."
"That place you went turns on a different clock, I think," the wazir replied. "Tell me . . . No! Wine first, and all present to hear."
He brought them to that chamber where they had first spoken with the wazir-narimasu, the central glass admitting clean light now, some sorcerers already waiting, others hurrying in as word spread through the citadel that the questers were come back safe. Calandryll looked for Chazali, only to learn the kiriwashen had returned to Pamur-teng, to which hold, Ochen assured him, word would be sent instantly. Wine was brought, and food; the room grew crowded, abuzz with questions, curiosity a palpable thing. Finally all were gathered and the doors closed. Zedu took a place at the table's head, Ochen seated on his left hand, the questers to his right.
Zedu said formally, "To Horul and your own gods we give praise for your safe return. To you we give praise for all you've done—the world stands in your debt."
Farther down the table someone murmured, "The Younger Gods themselves stand in their debt," which was answered with a murmur of agreement.
Zedu asked, "Do you then tell your tale?"
Silence fell. Bracht swallowed meat and motioned with a filled cup that Calandryll should act as spokesman. He looked to Katya and Cennaire, who both nodded. He began to speak.
The telling was punctu
ated with gasps, murmurs of approval, and awe. When he was done Zedu turned to Ochen: "The gate is closed?"
"Sealed." Gravely Ochen ducked his head. "None shall pass through that portal again. And once the Arcanum is delivered to Vanu, none shall again find a way to Tharn."
"This was bravely done," said Zedu, "and for that journey you'd now make you shall have such an escort as ..."
Calandryll interrupted the sorcerer. "There's a boon owed ere we depart."
Zedu's gaze wavered at that. Beside him, Ochen's smile froze, his expression troubled. The chamber was abruptly still, as if the wazir-narimasu held their breath, unsure what might now transpire. Calandryll held his eyes firm on Zedu's face.
"The matter of Cennaire's heart."
It seemed to Calandryll the mage sighed. He felt Cennaire's hand take his. Turning, he saw her lovely face planed grim. He said, "Aye. The matter of its return."
Zedu nodded, motioning that Ochen should speak on his behalf, on behalf of all the wazir- narimasu. There was a pause that seemed to stretch out, timeless, and then Ochen faced them both with solemn mien.
"You are fixed on this course?"
Such doubt underpinned the question Calandryll almost shook his head, almost said, "No. Save you be certain she shall live, I'd not risk it." But it was not, he recognized, his choice to make. That decision belonged to Cennaire.
She said, "Aye," with a certainty absolute.
"It shall not be easy. It may not be possible. Anomius no longer offers any threat. Might you not reconsider?"
"I'd have back my heart and be once more mortal."
Calandryll saw her eyes blaze, determined, and in that moment, in that look, felt his love flare afresh, heightened by the danger he heard in Ochen's voice, the courage in Cennaire's. Dera, he thought, I cannot lose her now. That I could not bear.
"You've great powers as you are."
"I'd give them up. I'd have back my heart."
"It may not be within our power to regain the pyxis, unseal the gramaryes Anomius set thereon."
"If not within yours, then whose?"
"You've great faith in us."
"Aye." Said simply.
Answered with: "Think you the sorcerers of Nhur-jabal shall readily give up the box?"
"Think you they'll not? Think you they'll leave me be, Anomius's creation?"
"Aye." Ochen smiled wanly. "There's that to consider. But also your existence. We might obtain the pyxis, safe. Bring it here . . . keep it here."
"No!" She did not shout, but still her voice was thunder in the room. "What I am I'd be no longer. What I am taints me—marks me as Anomius's creation! I'd be myself, entire, owing nothing to any man, save what I choose to give."
This with a glance at Calandryll, a brief smile that he answered with his own, proud for all the fear he felt. Dera, but it was far easier to face Rhythamun than this subtle torture. This was the confrontation they had set aside along the road to Anwar-teng. He wondered—traitorous thought—if he should argue with her, and told himself again, No, that this could not be his decision, only hers.
He heard Ochen say, "We cannot promise you success."
And Cennaire return, "Still I'd ask you to attempt it."
"Even though it risk your death?"
"That was risked not long ago. And a boon was promised in return."
"Aye, it was, and we stand by that promise. But even so ..."
"Even so, I'd have you do it."
"So be it. Would you rest, and we make the attempt on the morrow?"
She hesitated then, her eyes finding Calandryll's, and he saw fear in the great brown orbs. Then she turned again to Ochen and said, loud, "Best it be done now." And then, so soft none others there could hear, "Ere I weaken and gainsay myself."
He held her hand tight as Ochen ducked his head in solemn agreement, and whispered, "Would you not rest first? Shall tomorrow not be soon enough?"
He wondered if that were said selfishly. If he sought to spin out the sure time left them, to delay a little longer the possibility he should lose her.
She answered him, "No, my love. I'd do it now, for fear it be not done at all."
In that instant he thought her courage far outweighed his own. He raised her hand to his lips and said, "Then let's do it."
Neither noticed Ochen rise and come toward them until his voice intruded. "Do you then think on Nhur-jabal?" he asked. "Concentrate your mind on that chamber where Anomius took your heart, that we may see where we must go."
Calandryll let go her hand as the wazir came between them, his painted nails bright as they touched Cennaire's cheeks, tilting back her head as he stared into her eyes. The scent of almonds wafted pungent. Calandryll was dimly aware that all the wazir-narimasu concentrated their gaze on Ochen,- that Katya touched his sleeve, reassuring; that Bracht sat grim-faced, a fist about the falchion's hilt. Then Ochen loosed his hold and stepped back, nodding to himself, turning to Zedu. "We've the image of it," he said.
Zedu paused a heartbeat before replying. Then: "Even so ... to travel thus on another's memory alone."
Calandryll said, fierce now, "A boon was promised."
"Aye." Zedu looked a moment shamefaced. "It was, and it shall be granted. Be it in our power."
Calandryll had sooner the sorcerer not added that last, but he ignored it, taking Cennaire's hand again.
Ochen said, "Cennaire must be our guide. I go . . . Who else?"
"I," said Calandryll, echoed by Bracht, by Katya.
"Seven there must be to hold this cantrip firm," said Ochen. "You've power sufficient, my friend. But, Bracht, Katya ... I fear your presence should only endanger this undertaking."
"I go," said Zedu, and then three more. Cennaire said, "Do we go swift, then? Please?"
Ochen nodded and beckoned, and the seven moved a little way apart from the rest, forming a circle, shoulder to shoulder. Calandryll put an arm around Cennaire, pressing her close as the wizards began to chant, their arcane words setting the chamber to flickering like a candle seen through rain-washed glass. The scent of almonds waxed strong . . .
. . . and they stood within another chamber, this bright-lit by autumnal sunshine, opulent despite the dust that greyed the floor, the furniture, a hearth standing empty, the scent of desertion clear as magic's perfume faded.
"Anomius's quarters," Cennaire said, excitement and tension mingling in her voice. She clutched at Calandryll's arm. "He brought me here."
"And the pyxis must be here," said Ochen. Then, softer, "I hope."
"And soon those who'll wonder at our presence," said Zedu. "I doubt Anomius hid the box in any obvious place, but rather employed some gramarye of concealment. Do we bend our will to its finding before we're interrupted?"
Like questing hounds testing the air for sign of prey the wazir-narimasu began to examine the rooms. Calandryll stood helpless with Cennaire, one arm about her shoulders, a hand fingering the hilt of the straightsword, ready to draw should any oppose them. Such magic as was needed for the finding of the pyxis was not his to command, and he felt himself supernumerary, useless save that his presence was a support to Cennaire. She stayed by his side as the Jessertyes went about their search, coming with him to the door, where he set an ear to the paneled wood, listening for approaching footsteps, voices. Recognizing what he did, she drew him back, smiling nervously, and said, "Leave this to me. My ears are yet superior."
"Aye." He acknowledged the logic of it, even as he cursed his inaction: it allowed too much time, space, to fill up with fear. What if the wazir- narimasu failed to find the box? What if the surrounding gramaryes proved too strong? What if the Tyrant's sorcerers had already removed it? He looked from Cennaire to the busy thaumaturgists, willing the pyxis to appear, willing some bright- robed man to proclaim discovery.
Cennaire said, "Someone approaches."
Calandryll snatched the straightsword half its length from the scabbard before reason prevailed: better to plead, better to rely on the power of the wazir-nar
imasu. The sword slid back and he called a soft warning that was answered with a curse from Ochen.
"Can you not employ magic?" he asked. "Hide us? Seal the door?"
"I'd not contest with fellow mages," Ochen replied.
"And do they look to prevent our search? Shall you not oppose them then?"
"As best we may," the mage returned.
"This should be sufficient." Calandryll felt comforted. "I've seen your magicks at work."
Ochen snorted, not turning from his task. Over his ,shoulder he said, "I was a wazir then. I am wazir-narimasu now, and sworn to use no belligerent magic/'
Now Calandryll cursed. Cennaire said, "They're at the door. They speak."
The wood was too thick he might hear what was said, but the' sudden wafting of the familiar almond scent told him a cantrip was voiced. More mundane was the click of tumblers in the lock as a key was turned. Calandryll motioned Cennaire back, settling a hand firm on swordhilt.
The door opened, revealing a group of seven men, their robes black and silver, decorated with cabbalistic designs. Behind them, filling the corridor, clustered soldiers, too many leveling crossbows. Calandryll prepared to sell himself dear.
An old man, his features patrician, raised a hand, part warning to the intruders, part an order that those with him hold their fire. He said, "I am Rassuman, sorcerer to the Tyrant of Kandahar. What do you here?" His tone was commanding, but also curious.
It was a moment before Calandryll, his ears grown accustomed to the Jesseryte tongue, recognized the language. He ducked his head, briefly formal, diplomatic, not taking his eyes from the sorcerer's face, and answered, "We seek a box. A pyxis ..."
"Anomius's creature!" Behind Rassuman a grossly fat man pointed an accusing finger. "Slay her!"
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 43