"No!" The straightsword was in Calandryll's hand, defensive. He shouted, "Ochen! Ward us, for Dera's sake!"
"Hold, hold," urged Rassuman. "And you, Lykander, do you still your tongue a moment? We've a marvel here, and I'd know the making of it. They cannot elude us, and as yet offer us no harm."
He spoke with serene confidence and the obese sorcerer grunted, scratching irritably at a wine- stained beard.
Rassuman looked again at Calandryll, at Cennaire, and said, "The woman I recognize; and as Lykander remarks, she is, indeed, the revenant Anomius made. But you, my bellicose young friend, who are you?"
"Calandryll den Karynth. Anomius is dead."
Rassuman said, "Ah, I see it now. You've something of Lysse about you."
Lykander said, "The domm's brother! Therefore our enemy. Slay him! And the exotics, too."
"Given his name the relationship is unarguable." Rassuman's voice was mild. Calandryll thought perhaps his eyes twinkled, that he enjoyed baiting the fat man with the soiled beard. "But our enemy? That I doubt, as his brother proclaims him outlaw, and poor Menelian named him friend. And these others? I suspect it should be a harder task than most to slay them, for I perceive great magic in their presence. So, shall we talk awhile, ere we fling gramaryes at one another?" He smiled calmly, gesturing that Calandryll should continue. "You say Anomius is dead?"
"Aye." Calandryll nodded, relaxing a fraction. "He was slain by Rhythamun as they contested for the Arcanum."
To Rassuman's right a younger mage smiled, stroking a hand as if in satisfaction. On his left a man murmured, "This is one of whom Menelian spoke."
Rassuman grunted, ducked his head, and asked more urgently, "And that fell book? Where is it now?"
"In Anwar-teng, on the Jesseryn Plain." Calandryll lowered the straightsword as he outlined the tale of Rhythamun's defeat, Anomius's demise, all that had gone before.
When he was done Rassuman nodded thoughtfully and said, "So you'd remove the pyxis and restore the revenant her heart. Be all you said the truth, then she deserves as much."
"You forget Menelian!" Lykander protested.
"I also choose to forget that you favored Anomius," said Rassuman, such steel in his tone that the fat man paled, falling silent. Then: "We sought that box without success. Our aim"—he glanced apologetically at Cennaire—"was to destroy this lady. When Anomius slipped his bonds and fled, we set these chambers round with gramaryes, lest he return. That you entered is a wondrous thing. These . . . wazir-narimasu, you name them? . . . must be sorcerers of great power to defeat our cantrips. Should we engage in battle, I suspect none should gain much and many suffer."
Calandryll saw no reason to explain the peaceful nature of the Jessertyes' magic. Instead he ducked his head, smiling, and said, "I see no need for battle. Do you leave us to our search, we'll be gone once the pyxis is found." , ,,
"We might do more," said Rassuman. "We might join you in the hunt. Perhaps, does Kandahar join with Jesseryn Plain, we might succeed."
The wazir-narimasu had left off their searching as the conversation went on, awaiting its outcome with defensive magic readied. Now Calandryll turned to them, explaining Rassuman's offer. Ochen it was who answered: "Such aid is welcome. Likely, do we join our magicks, we may find the box. But do we first gift ourselves with tongues, and thus save yours the task of translation/'
A little more was needed as Calandryll explained the suggestion, and then the Tyrant's sorcerers dismissed the guards and came into the chambers. For a while the air crackled, rich with the almond scent as the wazir-narimasu enspelled the Kands.
"Burash!" Rassuman declared when it was done. "Such a cantrip's a mightily useful thing. Now, do you tell me how you managed to enter here?"
Calandryll waxed impatient as occult lore was exchanged. Cennaire clung to his arm, still nervous in the presence of men she had for so long believed must seek her destruction. Indeed, Calandryll thought, watching their faces, there were some would still. Lykander and the one named Lemomal yet wore hostile expressions: there was one, Caranthus, who seemed indecisive,* but the rest were wholehearted in their offer and their efforts, and they held sway, carrying the others with them.
Impatient he was, but even so intrigued to learn of events in the wider world. Order was restored to Kandahar, Fayne Keep reduced to rubble and Sathoman ek'FIennem's head even now rotting on the battlements of Nhur-jabal. His brother's dream of conquest was ended with a storm—of Burash's making? he wondered—that left the great invasion fleet sunk at anchor, Tobias gone back in high dudgeon to Lysse, where Nadama had borne him a son already named heir to the High Throne. The great affairs of the world were settled. Save for that one that now was paramount in his mind. He began to fret as the westering sun shone fainter through the windows.
At last, however, the assembled wizards were done with talking and turned to the task in hand. The chambers grew heady with magic's perfume, droning with the chant of cantrips. And then Zedu, working in harmony with Rassuman, shouted triumphantly from the sleeping quarters.
Calandryll and Cennaire forwent etiquette as they thrust magicians aside, bursting into the room to see the Jesseryte, an expression of distaste on his swarthy features, holding the pyxis.
It was a very simple thing, of plain, black wood, undecorated. Zedu set it down as if it were poisonous, and all there gathered, staring.
"The gramaryes of binding are much weakened by Anomius's death," Rassuman murmured, "but even so, not easy of undoing. Do we attempt it, all of us? It should be safer thus, I think."
They looked one to the other, then to where Cennaire stood. A sorcerer Calandryll remembered was named Cenobar said gently, "The undoing shall be dangerous, Lady. And that but the first step."
"The second," she returned softly. "The first was the finding of it, and that's a step taken now. I'd complete this journey back."
"As you will," said Rassuman.
Calandryll felt Cennaire's fingers dig hard into his flesh as the sorcerers ringed the pyxis, their backs, black Kand robes alternating with brilliant Jesseryte, blocking view. His nostrils clogged with the almond scent, intoxicating; the air shivered, shimmering, sparking blue and silver. Outside, the sky crimsoned with the sun's descent beyond the Kharm-rhanna, shadow denied within the chamber by the coruscation of occult light. Then silence and a slumping of shoulders, the light dying, the almond scent fading. Someone said, hoarse-voiced, "By all the gods, Anomius owned power."
Then Ochen said, "It's done. Do we proceed to the next step?"
''Best you go swift/' said Rassuman, and turned to face Cennaire. "Those gramaryes with which Anomius protected the box are lifted, but with their lifting so, too, are those spells that invest you with life weakened. You've little time left, Lady. I pray Burash you've sufficient."
Cennaire nodded silently, staring wide-eyed at the pyxis. Calandryll felt cold sweat bead his brow. To succeed so far only to fail for lack of time? Dera, should Anomius yet revenge himself? Drymouthed, his voice husky, he said, "Then do we go without delay?"
"We cannot aid you further," Rassuman murmured. "May the gods speed you."
"Aye." Already the wazir-narimasu came together, Ochen reaching out to take Cennaire's hand, to draw her within their aegis. Calandryll went with her, holding her close as the chant began and the darkening room shifted, flickering in and out of sight to become . . .
. . . the council chamber in Anwar-teng, Bracht and Katya starting up as the seven figures coalesced, their expressions urgent, questions forming that Calandryll met with an outthrust palm, turning to Ochen.
"How much time have we? What must you do?"
"How much time I cannot tell." Ochen peered about the chamber, his fellow sorcerers busying themselves as Zedu barked orders. "Not much, I think. Horul, but Anomius thought far ahead! This must be done swift, and without hesitation."
"Say you we can be defeated?" Calandryll hugged Cennaire close, she silent, as if, her path chosen, she consigned herself to fate. "Th
at even now . . ." He bit back the words and asked instead, "Can you not replace those gramaryes of binding? Earn a little time?"
"No," said Ochen curtly. "Once undone, those spells may not be woven again. This is a thing from which there can be no turning back . . . There is only success or failure now. And you've a part to play in this."
"I?" Calandryll shook his head, confused. "Name it, and I'll do it. But what can I do? I'm no mage. For all you've tutored me, I scarce understand this power I own."
"Love is seldom easily understood-," said Ochen.
"Love?" Calandryll frowned at the enigmatic response. "What's love to do with this?"
He felt Cennaire moan then, shuddering within the compass of his arm. He turned his face toward her and saw her pale beneath her tan, her dusky skin become ash-hued. The eyes she raised were wide with pain, leaking tears. Her teeth began to chatter and she moaned again, bending, a hand pressed to her breast. ‘
Low-voiced, she gasped, "The spell unwinds, I think."
"Dera, no!" Calandryll drew her close, calling on whatever magic he commanded to aid her, calling on the Younger Gods to ease her pain, grant her time.
That power remained dormant; nor did any god respond. He held her, feeling her shake as if ague wracked her, her body cooling as if its life drained out. '
Ochen shouted, "Swift! We must act now, and here. Clear the table!"
Hands reached for the detritus of the meal, and wine jugs, cups. Swifter were the falchion and the saber Bracht and Katya swung, sending plates, cups, all of it tumbling to the floor. Delicate china broke, wine ran like blood. Wazir-narimasu began to chant, urgently, others to painting sigils on the wood, arcane symbols that glowed bright, loosing the almond scent.
"Disrobe," Ochen said.
Cennaire's hands fumbled, her fingers shaking, numbed, at her clothes' fastenings. Katya spun, snatching Bracht's dirk from the sheath, roughly shoving Calandryll away as she slashed the lacings of Cennaire's tunic, hacked off the shirt beneath. Calandryll tugged the ruined vestments clear, and caught Cennaire in his arms as she cried out and fell. Katya knelt, ungentle in her urgency as she yanked the boots from Cennaire's feet, the dirk slicing fast through leathern breeks, the undergarments.
"Set her down."
Ochen pushed Calandryll toward the table, indicating the pentagram marked there, and he lowered Cennaire to the wood, the light emanating from the sigils reflected in the sweat that glistened on her naked body. Her eyes fluttered open and her mouth moved: Calandryll leaned close to hear.
"I love you," she whispered. "I've no regrets, no matter ..."
Her voice tailed off. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung slack.
Calandryll cried, "No! You cannot die! You must not!"
"She's not yet gone." Ochen thrust him aside, stooping over the supine form, hands moving in intricate patterns that left trailers of light behind, touching her mouth, her breast, her forehead. The wazir-narimasu stood in a circle about the table, their chanting soft now, so that Calandryll heard very clear Ochen's next words.
"This part shall be the hardest. Hard for us and worse for you."
"Worse?" Calandryll shook his head, dismissing the question: there was no time for redundant words. Instead he asked, "What must I do?"
Ochen glanced sidelong at Cennaire, as though to reassure himself the vestiges of life remained. Urgently, he said, "There's a power in you that transcends even such magic as we wazir-narimasu command. And you love her! That, above all, is the vital factor now."
Helplessly Calandryll muttered, "I fail to understand."
"You need not, only act," said Ochen. "Yours must be the hand that takes out what Anomius set within her. Yours the hand that puts back her living heart."
Calandryll gasped, gaping, as sudden sweat ran chill down ribs and spine, "I cannot! I've not the skill. I'm no chirurgeon. Dera, I'd kill her!"
"You must!" Ochen's hand fastened hard upon his wrist, the wrinkled face tilted up, narrow eyes burning with a dreadful intensity as he stared into Calandryll's. "Hate it was took out her heart and made her revenant—Anomius's hatred of you and your companions. Love it must be that restores the organ. Without love, we've no hope of success— and of all here, your love is the strongest. Do it! Or see her die!"
Calandryll mpaned, a groan of heartfelt agony, of awful indecision. He gazed at Cennaire, her body slick with sweat now, the rise and fall of pumping lungs slowing, her lips gone pale, as if the coursing of blood faltered.
"Do it!" the sorcerer repeated, remorseless. "Or see her die! It's in your hands."
Calandryll's teeth gritted, lips stretched back in rictal grimace. He willed his hands to still their trembling: without effect. Then fingers clutched his shoulder, spinning him round to face Bracht.
"Do it." The Kern's voice was steady, steel-hard as the blue eyes that locked his gaze. "Quit your mewling and do it."
"Do you truly love her, you can." Beside the Kern Katya's grey eyes shone fierce. "The gods will guide you."
Dumb, he nodded, a silent prayer shaping in his mind: Dera, be with me now. Do you love me, be with me. Have I served you, grant me the strength to do this. He turned from those determined eyes, blue and grey, to find Ochen's tawny slits, and ducked his head in frightened acceptance.
"What must I do?"
Ochen's smile was fleeting. "Dera placed her blessing on that blade you wear. Use that."
Calandryll drew the straightsword unthinking. Then hesitated, staring at the blade. No chirur- geon's tool this, no delicate scalpel but a length of forged steel made for life's taking, not its renewal. It seemed a clumsy, cumbersome thing now.
"That shall serve better than any scalpel." It seemed Ochen read his mind; or the expression on his face. "Trust in your goddess."
Calandryll licked parched lips, passed a hand over tear-blurred eyes. Dera, I place my trust in you. Aloud, he said, "Tell me what I must do."
Ochen touched Cennaire's ribs, one long nail scratching a faint line, dark against the pallor of her dying skin. "Cut here."
Calandryll took a deep breath, closed his eyes a moment, then leaned against the table, both hands about the straightsword's hilt. Suddenly they were firm, steady, no longer shaking. His vision cleared. It seemed in that instant he felt the power of the goddess in the steel. His heart calmed, no longer racing, but pumping an even beat. He set the blade against the line Ochen had drawn and cut.
Flesh parted, peeling from the wound. A few drops of blood oozed. There should have been more, a flood did she still live. He forced the doubt away.
Ochen said, "Deeper/7 and he cut again, down through the underlying tissue until he saw exposed within the cage of ribs a lump of black clay.
The chanting of the wazir-narimasu grew louder, their words imbuing the darkening chamber with radiant blue light. It seemed to Calandryll to wind and flow about the blade, that pulsing of its own now, scintilla dancing within the metal.
At his shoulder, Ochen said, "Sever those ties that bind it."
The straightsword was light, weightless it seemed, sure as any scalpel, his hands resolute as he cut through the linkages of arteries and veins, severing those connections with Anomius's magic.
"Take out that abomination."
He set the sword aside, unaware whose hands took it from him, and reached into the cavity, lifting out the clay. It burned his palms, a sour odor of corruption and decay offending his nostrils, as if its final moments of existence were spent in spite, last lingering memories of Anomius's malice. He turned, and Ochen reached to take the fell burden from him. Zedu, still mouthing the incantation, leaned forward, passing him Cennaire's heart. That lay warm in his hands, and he thought, or hoped, he felt it pulse. He saw Ochen drop the clay into the pyxis a sorcerer extended, and the lid close.
Ochen wiped his hands and said, "Now give her back her heart."
Gently, delicately, he set the organ in place.
"What now?"
"For you, no more. This part belongs to us."<
br />
Ochen stretched out his arms, hands palms-downward above the wound. His fellow sorcerers came closer, their outthrust hands a benign canopy. Their chanting deepened and the air crackled with the power of their magic, blue fire dancing, enveloping them and Cennaire in its glow. Calandryll watched, breath held, as flesh moved, tubes writhing, extending to the still organ, touching it, joining, reconnecting the channels, the conduits of mortal existence. The sundered flesh moved, the lips of the wound closing until only a thin pink line remained. Then that, too, was gone, and Cennaire lay again entire.
Ochen once more touched gentle fingers to her breast, her lips, her forehead, and then, one by one, all of the wazir-narimasu did the same. Their chanting reached a crescendo and the blue radiance enveloped Cennaire.
Then silence, a dying of the light.
Calandryll felt his held breath come out in a ragged sigh.
Cennaire lay still.
No hint of life lifted her ribs,* no breath came warm from her cold lips,- her eyes stared wide and sightless.
Calandryll saw, as if time slowed, as if this final disappointment must be drawn out, lingering, that each final particle of dashed hope be savored, Ochen turn toward him, desolation etched clear in every wrinkle of his face. He saw the mage's lips move, heard each word come ponderous, a threnody of despair.
"I fear we were too late. Oh, Horul! There's no more we can do. Cennaire is truly dead."
“No!”
Calandryll flung the smaller man aside, hurling himself at the table, at Cennaire's corpse.
“No!”
It was cry of absolute denial, blind refusal of his eyes' testimony, of Ochen's words. There was no grief in it, not yet; rather it was a scream of rage, of total rejection. He cupped Cennaire's ashen face, lifting her head. Her cheeks were cold. Her raven hair spread, dulled now that magic's illumination was gone, a dark and lifeless shroud. He shouted, "No," again, and, "You cannot die. Not now," and pressed his lips to hers.
What the others there present saw then he did not, for he held the woman he loved in his arms, seeking to infuse her with his own life, to breathe his vitality into her corpse, and he was blind to all else.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 44