by Shel, Mike
The old man determined that he must carefully conserve what strength this body had left in it. No more scrying on the machinations of this or that player in the game. No, he would have to rely on what he could glean in person, and that which presented itself unbidden. Soon this body would be nothing more than a dried-out husk, buried or cremated, whatever these people thought proper for an old Aerican man with no place nor relations in Boudun. The thought of it was like a warm blanket on a chilly day. Ah! To finally rest, after long, wandering millennia. O Universal Spirit of Creation, let it be soon!
The old man was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the queen’s sudden lunge at the countess, black claws sinking into the white flesh of the young woman’s shoulder, blooming crimson, her jagged teeth within an inch of the pulsing jugular in Ilanda’s slender neck. The old man called on the nearest power, speaking the appropriate formula in the abstruse tongue of sorcery, and allowed it to flow through him. The queen’s corpse-like form, engulfed by an iridescent light, went stiff, save for her greedy jaws, snapping, so dangerously close to the countess’s tender flesh. The momentum of her sudden attack carried both her and Ilanda to the ground. The countess tried to push the queen’s rigid body from her, but cried out: the razor-sharp claws were dug deeply into the meat of her shoulder.
The Grand Chamberlain let out a curse of surprise: the old man’s spell of concealment shattered the moment he unleashed power to halt Geneviva’s attack. The Aerican went to the countess’s side, tried to pull her out from beneath the queen’s stiff form, but it was as though her claws were barbed. Ulwen was beside him then, and the two of them gingerly worked the queen’s black nails from Ilanda’s lacerated flesh one at a time. Tears streamed from the corners of the countess’s eyes, but she managed to keep from crying out.
“How long ago did you escape the dungeons, sir?” hissed Ulwen as the two managed to work the jagged nail of Geneviva’s ring finger from the countess’s shoulder.
“Nine days, Grand Chamberlain,” he answered in his calm baritone. “But I was released. I did not escape.”
“On whose authority?”
“Why, the queen’s, Grand Chamberlain. Who else would dare override your order?”
“And you have skulked around the palace since then?”
“Aye, more or less. I assure you, I am here to aid your people.”
When the last claw was removed, the two men dragged Ilanda from beneath the queen and her still-snapping jaws, flecks of spittle flying from that hungry orifice. The countess lost consciousness as blood pulsed from the terrible wound, pooling onto the floor and soaking into a fine green and gold rug depicting the griffon rampant. Ulwen started to put pressure on the torn flesh, but the old man moved his hand away.
“She’ll bleed to death, by Marcator’s oath!” spat the Grand Chamberlain.
“Yes, so I will heal it.”
“You’re no priest!” shouted Ulwen, appalled. “Healing comes from intercession of the gods! Sorcery cannot repair mangled flesh!”
“It can and will,” he answered and pressed a palm to the bloody mess that was the countess’s shoulder. He held up his other hand, exposing the arrowhead-shaped scar on the palm, and whispered the words, pulling power from its distant source, channeling it into the injury. He sensed the necromantic poisons in the wound. It seemed the queen’s claws did more than tear flesh. There was great, malevolent power behind them. The old man had to suppress his gorge with the foulness of it. As the healing energy worked its way through him to the damage done, leeching out the poisons and expelling them into the ether, the old man prayed to the Spirit of Creation.
O thou great ingenious force that called the universe into being, let me be an agent of healing, let this fine woman live. Let her live to fulfill her purpose, to bear the burdens which only she can bear. Do not abandon these people now, Creative Spirit. I cry out for mercy!
Did his words reach the ears of Divinity? The old man didn’t know. He had never heard God answer him. Sometimes he could sense a presence, as though some awesome intellect focused itself on him, if only for a fleeting moment. Regardless, the countess’s flesh knitted itself together, blood vessels were repaired, lacerations sewn back together as though those malicious claws had never pierced her skin. When it was done, the only evidence of the attack, save the blood-soaked rug and her torn dress, were five blemishes on the countess’s skin where the nails had gone in.
The Grand Chamberlain’s jaw dropped when he saw the perfection of the old man’s healing. He stood and took two steps back. “What are you?” he asked in a low voice.
The old man sat on the ground, cradling the countess in his lap. He looked up at Ulwen and smiled his broad, bright smile.
“I was Benesh-Enoah once, then Leneh-Virgah, later Telsa, later still Socono, Falnic, and Wajid. Now I am Ush’oul, The Betrayer. I earned that name because I betrayed my own kind, choosing to aid humanity, so that they might throw off their shackles. My work is not complete, and the outcome is no certain thing. Can I count on you to join the side of humankind, Ulwen of Raelben, son of a carpenter, grandson of a carpenter?”
“I have sworn my fealty to the throne of Hanifax,” the man answered, solemn and wary.
“In this case, Ulwen of Raelben, serving one does not preclude serving the other. We must hold the kingdom together while Auric and Agnes Manteo do what they must.”
“And what must I do now?”
“Take the orb I gave you to reach the queen imprisoned in that feral husk. Use it to put her to sleep. You know the spells. They’re simple cantrips, yes, but the orb will amplify their power. The paralysis I have affected will wear off within the hour, but she will sleep for the remainder of the day and wake tomorrow with no recollection of these events. From now on you must do what is necessary to monitor the queen’s newfound appetites. She must be fed human blood, daily, at least a dozen drams. Mix it in her wine, bake it into her bread. It may be enough to suppress the unnatural hunger. For a while at least.”
The Grand Chamberlain nodded, reaching into his robe and extracting the glass orb, golden flecks shimmering within it. “I’ll do as you say. But don’t hide your presence from me again. Was the countess—”
“Yes. It was her belief we should enlighten you. She kept my presence a secret at my request. I hope you will not think less of her for it.”
The Grand Chamberlain looked at the countess, eyes fluttering beneath her eyelids, her bosom rising and falling slowly. “I thought we trusted one another,” he said.
“And she does, my friend. She’s kept nothing else from you; that I promise.” The Grand Chamberlain nodded, then carefully lifted the queen’s skeletal form from the floor—jaws still opening and closing, biting at the air—and laid her on her bed. The old man stood and lifted Ilanda, to carry her to her own suite of rooms.
Perhaps he believed that lie, thought the old man. Perhaps he did not. Regardless, that one bears watching.
When the old man reached the countess’s rooms, not far from the queen’s suite, he was greeted by her faithful maidservants, Baea and Ruby, who put hands to their mouths to stifle cries and rushed to their mistress’s side. He reassured them that the countess would be fine, despite her torn, bloodstained gown. Ghallo was there as well, wide-eyed with horror that his holy icon had been injured. After she was laid safe in her bed, still unconscious, the old man insisted to Ghallo that the two of them leave the countess with her maids. If allowed to, he was sure the boy would sleep at the foot of her bed like a faithful hound.
“What happened to her, sir?” The lad was close to tears.
The old man felt the great strain of what he had done, the price for calling on the power to save Ilanda Padivale from the fate of the crown prince, now lying in the Reges family sepulcher. Too much, he thought. This body has reached its limit. And too soon. Far too soon. Still, I must do what must be done. Creative Spirit, forgive m
e.
“The queen happened to her, my son. If I had not been there, your monarch would have eaten her.”
The tears Ghallo had been holding at bay burst forth. “We have to leave! We have to take her from this terrible place, sir!”
“We cannot, my son. She needs to be here. There are things which only she can accomplish. Her alone. And it is our duty—yours and mine—to protect her.”
The boy’s lips were a thin, straight line of determination. “What, sir? What can I do to help the countess? I’ll do anything I can to keep her safe.”
The old man smiled sadly. Yes, you will, my son. The moment you laid eyes on her, you became hers. It will make what I must do less painful, though only a little. You require only a tiny nudge. Bless this good boy, O Universal Spirit of Creation.
“I believe you, Ghallo. You and I will keep her safe. But first, I must tell you another tale.”
The lad wiped his nose on one sleeve, dried his tears with the other. The gestures made him look younger than he was. “A story? What’s it about?”
“Sacrifice, Ghallo. The story I have to tell you is about great sacrifice.”
29
Candle
The last stretch of the road before they reached Gnexes followed a fast-flowing stream and was flanked by great white aspens and rugged cottonwoods, so thick it was an easy thing to forget they were in the mountains. Agnes rode a dappled mare, doing her best to ignore the ache in her gut, glad to be up and about again. She was glad to be out of the back of the wagon, no longer lying there like a coddled thing.
Her father had been taciturn and irritable the whole day, from the moment they woke in the longhouse shelter until now, riding in the lead, a few paces ahead of the rest of them. His behavior was beginning to concern her. For one, she thought she caught him talking to himself a few times, then wondered if it was the sword with whom he conversed.
And are you certain the blade really speaks to him?
The thought came out of nowhere, and it disturbed her. There was no question the bejeweled weapon had great sorcerous power; she had borne intimate witness to that fact. But where had she ever read of talking swords other than fairy tales, even if those were fairy tales of the Djao? If the weapon did not speak, the only explanation that made any sense was that her father was mad. She couldn’t imagine a reason for him to lie about such a thing, and wouldn’t the truth-speaker at the inquiry last year have detected such an outrageous falsehood anyway?
She thought again on the months immediately following the deaths of her father’s Syraeic colleagues, more than four years ago now, on that fateful expedition that ended with Auric emerging from the Barrowlands with her godmother’s head under his arm. Pallas Rae had allowed her to examine the transcripts of the subsequent inquiry. She recalled every gruesome detail. Even at a remove, the story filled her with horror. What would an experience like that do to a person’s mind? Her father had drowned his memories in liquor for several months afterwards; she remembered fearing he would kill himself that way and leave her all alone.
All alone, she thought again, the threat of tears rising in her. She had felt an orphan in many ways even after he had finished his drunken mourning and resigned his commission with the League. With him retired to the country, who had she to seek for parental counsel or comfort? And then Agnes recalled the letter he had written to her from Daurhim, suggesting she take up a post training initiates rather than becoming a field agent. The memory of it flooded her with anger anew. Frowning, she looked over at Chalca, riding a chocolate-brown gelding beside her. He smiled back with furrowed brow.
“What is it, Agnes?”
“I don’t know. Shitty thoughts.”
“About what?”
Agnes grimaced and gestured to her father riding ahead of them. Chalca let out a long breath, but he said nothing, his attention turning back to the rise of the road.
She sensed Chalca was growing weary of her irritable melancholy. She couldn’t blame him, though his frustration made her feel even more alone. She looked behind her, received a lopsided smile from Sira and a grim nod from Qeelb—it seemed everything the man did had an air of grimness about it. Kennah, bringing up their rear, conversed with a white-haired pilgrim clad in a breastplate in need of polish with a sword at his side, riding a dirty white mare.
She turned back around as she reached the rise and was surprised by what was revealed: a gathering of pilgrims before a stone bridge across a great gap between rocky escarpments. It was at least two hundred feet from one end to the other and twice as wide as the road. Most stunning, Agnes couldn’t imagine how the thing had been built, or what supported the gray stone span.
“More sorcery,” commented Qeelb as he caught up to her. “A showy thing. Far easier to divert the road around this gap rather than erect this monstrosity.”
“Regardless,” said Chalca, “it doesn’t look like anyone’s crossing it.”
It was true. No one walked across the bridge. Instead, several dozen pilgrims in parties of varying size seemed to have made camp on the near side. Some were on foot, others were mounted. Midday meals were cooking over fires, and milling among them were solitary hawkers vending their wares—charms, frog pendants, hand-held stone idols of Pember of the Watchful Eye.
Agnes’s father paused only for a few moments before spurring on his fat horse Glutton toward the congregation of pilgrims and peddlers. His approach was immediately clocked by a pair of the peddlers, who made a beeline towards him through the throng.
“A tiger eye agate is a must when you petition the All-Seeing, noble lord,” said a squat, white-haired old woman in voluminous skirts. “It shows a right and proper respect for the What-Might-Be!” She waved a small polished brown sphere hung on a dull gray chain before him, as though performing hypnosis.
“If that’s a tiger eye agate, I’m the grand padishah of Azkaya,” Agnes observed as her mount sidled up beside Glutton and her father.
The woman scowled at her, jerking the pendant back as though Agnes had spat upon it. “And what would you know of gemstones, girl,” the old woman barked back, “with nary a hair on your cooze?” She turned and walked away to the sound of Chalca’s hearty laughter.
“Making friends already, I see,” the actor said as he climbed down from his mount. Agnes, making an obscene gesture at him, couldn’t help but smile. Qeelb, Kennah, and Sira soon joined them.
“What’s this logjam, then?” asked Kennah, stroking his beard as though he groomed a family pet.
“Only at night,” came a voice from the crowd, the accent strange.
Agnes and her companions turned to the sound. From between two run-down carriages came a tall, swarthy man in flowing ochre robes, a gold-braided turban on his head. He wore a curved blade at his hip and he had a thick black beard to rival Kennah’s, save that it was oiled. Agnes could smell its perfume from her saddle. Beside the man was a little boy wearing matching robes and sword.
“Watch this man,” said Qeelb in an emotionless voice. “He has the eastern stink about him.”
The man held out his hands, showing the backs of them, then his empty palms, frowning. “I come with information, as a friend. Such words are unkind.”
“Your countrymen have proven my contempt and suspicion warranted,” Qeelb answered.
“An Azkayan?” Agnes asked in wonder.
“I am fortunate to be of that people,” replied the man, smiling. “Kassam ibn Daoud, of Jiddha, on a journey of discovery. Not so different from you, ayeh? Gnexes draws pilgrims from far and wide. Why, I once met a man on the oracle’s road who hailed from the distant kingdom of Aklan, across the Great Eastern Ocean. In the remote east, their skins have a golden hue, with eyes shaped like almonds—a beautiful people.”
“You are an Azkayan,” said Auric, a statement rather than Agnes’s question. “Do you not have seers and oracles of your own? You seek e
nlightenment in the lands of your enemy?”
“The Oracle at Gnexes is peerless, ayeh?” he responded, brow furrowed as though Auric’s comment had hurt him. “And you are not my enemy, nor I yours, and Azkaya is not presently at war with Hanifax. Regardless of what ambitions our rulers may pursue, I have lived my life so that I might make friends rather than enemies.”
“That would make you a rare Azkayan in my experience,” said Qeelb, drawing up to Agnes with his black mount. “Azkaya was not at war with Hanifax when one of its navy sank my ship and clapped me in irons.”
“I’m sorry for your misfortune, sirrah,” the Azkayan said, touching two fingers to his forehead. “But it appears you won your freedom, for which I rejoice.”
“I did,” said Qeelb, his voice cold. He lifted the bandage from his forehead, briefly flashing the shattered opal in his forehead. “But not before spending many years imprisoned on a shelf, within a sorcerer’s soul jar. After that, I was four years aboard an Azkay warship, serving as an unwilling instrument of murder. Would you like to know how I escaped hell?”
Kassam looked up at Qeelb, and Agnes watched recognition strike him; he froze where he was, save for the protective hand he put down to halt the boy. “You killed your said-min kassir, sirrah,” he said in a breathy whisper, the air of affability gone.