Also tethered thus was the one horsewoman, or rather, a woman who rode pillion Roknari-style behind a servant, sitting sideways on a padded chair atop the horse’s haunches with her feet demurely disposed on a little shelf. The sorceress wore courtly, trailing garments, and a broad-brimmed hat tied below her chin with dark green ribbons. She was a much younger woman than Joen, though neither maidenly nor beautiful. She stared intently at Ista.
Ista stepped out after Illvin, keeping her eyes upon his face and not the dark drop below, which was deliberately lined at the bottom with sharp rocks and glinting broken glass. Cattilara’s sandals slipped on her sweating feet. Illvin reached to clasp her hand, a hard grip, and pulled her to stand upon the dusty ground beyond. Instantly, the board was jerked back, scraping through the postern door, which was then clapped shut.
The woman rode closer. Even as Ista looked up to return her glower, the demon light within her faded, until Ista only saw skin and clothing. The mere expression of a face, not the colors of a soul. Ista’s breath caught, and she looked again at Sordso. Now he appeared no more than a golden-haired young man upon a prancing black horse. Not one of the sorcerers flung up their hands, wincing at the glare of Ista’s god light, nor did the demons cringe within them—she could not see the demons within them.
My inner sight is stolen. I am blinded.
Something else was missing. The pressure of the god upon her back, which had borne her forward floating as if in a dream since that bloodstained dawn upon the north tower, was gone as well. Behind her, only an empty silence loomed. Infinitely empty, since so infinitely filled just moments before. She tried frantically to think when she had last felt the god’s hands upon her shoulders. She was certain He had been with her in the forecourt, when she had spoken with dy Cabon. She thought He had been with her when she’d stepped onto the board across the cleft.
He was not with me when I stepped off.
Her useless outer eyes blurred with terror and loss. She could barely breathe, as though her chest was bound tight with heavy cords. What have I done wrong?
~Who is this?~ asked Prince Sordso, pointing at Illvin.
The bronze-skinned sorcerer pushed his horse up next to the prince’s and stared down in surprise at Illvin, who looked back coolly. ~I believe it is Ser Illvin dy Arbanos himself, Your Highness—Lord Arhys’s bastard brother, the bane of our borders.~
Sordso’s blond eyebrows went up. ~The new commander of Porifors! What does he here? Ask him where is the other woman.~ He gestured at his translator.
The officer rode nearer to Illvin. “You, dy Arbanos! The agreement was for the dowager royina and the daughter of the march of Oby,” he said in Ibran. “Where is Lady Cattilara dy Lutez?”
Illvin favored him with a slight, ironic bow. His eyes were icy black. “Gone to join her husband. When, watching last night from the tower, she felt him die, she flung herself from the parapet and gave her grief to the stones below. She lies now waiting to be buried, when you withdraw as you agreed and we can again reach our graveyards. I come in her place, and to serve Royina Ista as warder and attendant. Since, having seen your armies and their dubious discipline once before, the royina did not desire to bring her handmaidens among you.”
The translator’s brows drew down, and not only at the oblique trailing insult. He repeated the news to Sordso and the others. The sorceress nudged her rider to bring her closer. ~Is this true?~ she demanded.
~Look yourselves for what you really seek, then,~ said Illvin, with a bow in her direction. ~I should think Prince Sordso could recognize the remnants of his own sister Umerue from this distance, if she were still…well, alive is not quite the right term, now, is it? If she were still residing within Lady Cattilara behind those walls.~
The translator jerked in his saddle, though whether in surprise at Illvin’s message or at the tongue in which it was spoken, Ista was not sure. Sordso, the bronze-skinned officer, and the sorceress all turned their heads toward Porifors, their expressions growing intent and inward.
~Nothing,~ breathed Sordso after a moment. ~It is gone.~
The sorceress eyed Illvin. ~That one knows too much.~
~My poor sister-in-law is dead, and the creature you lost is fled beyond your reach,~ said Illvin. ~Shall we get this over with?~
At a nod from the prince, two soldiers dismounted. They first took the precaution of checking Illvin for concealed blades in his sash and boots; he suffered their hands with a look of bored displeasure. Tension flowed into his long body when one of the soldiers approached Ista, relaxing only slightly when the man knelt by her white skirts.
“You are to take off your shoes,” the translator called to her. “You will walk barefoot and bareheaded into the presence of the August Mother, as befitting a lesser woman and a Quintarian heretic.”
Illvin’s chin went up and his jaw set. Whatever objections he had been about to voice, though, he closed his teeth upon. It was an interesting subtlety, Ista thought, that they did not also demand Illvin’s boots. The disparity only drove home his impotence to protect her.
The man’s hot hands pawed at the ribbons Liss had so lately tied around Ista’s ankles. She stood rigidly, but did not resist. He pulled the light sandals away from her feet and threw them aside. He stood, backed away, and remounted his horse.
Sordso rode up to her, his eyes searching her from head to foot. He smiled grimly at what he saw—or possibly at what he didn’t see. In any case, he did not fear to turn his back on her, for he gestured her sharply to take position directly behind his horse in the procession forming up. Illvin tried to offer her his arm, but the bronze-skinned officer pulled his sword and pointed with it for him to walk behind her. Sordso’s hand rose and fell in signal, and they started off across the dry, uneven ground.
Ista was barely conscious of the brass-bright noon through which she stumbled. She groped inside her mind, within an echoing darkness. Called silent curses to the Bastard. Then, silent prayers. Nothing came back.
Were the Jokonan sorcerers doing this? Defeating a god in the realm of matter? Surely these opponents could not overwhelm this god…?
Not the god’s failure, then, but hers; her spirit gates had somehow been shut again, broken and tumbled in, choked with stones of fear, anger, or humiliation, denying the new-dilated passage…
She had made a mistake, some monstrous mistake, somewhere in the past few fleeting minutes. Maybe she had been supposed to give this task, to give the god, to dy Cabon after all. Maybe keeping it for herself had been the great presumption, a huge and fatal presumption. Overweening arrogance, to imagine such a task was given to her. Who would be stupid enough to give such a task to her?
The gods. Twice. It was a puzzle, how beings so vast could be so vastly mistaken. I knew better than to trust them. Yet here I am—again…
Sharp stones bit her feet along the road. The procession turned aside toward the grove, angling through a low space of dark muck that sucked at the horses’ hooves and stank of stagnant water and horse piss. They scrambled up a slight rise. She could hear Illvin’s long footfalls behind her, and his quickening breath, his uneven puffing revealing more of his debilitation than his face ever would. The grove loomed before her, its shade a blessed relief from the hammering sun overhead.
Ah. Not so blessed after all, nor any relief. They marched up past an aisle of the dead. Laid quite deliberately along the left side of their route, as if made witnesses to this procession, were the bodies of the men of Porifors killed last night in Arhys’s sortie. All were stripped naked, their wounds exposed to feed the iridescent green flies that buzzed about them.
She glanced up the row of pale forms, counted. Eight. Eight, of the fourteen who had ridden out against fifteen hundreds. Six must still live somewhere in the Jokonan camp, then, wounded and taken. Foix’s muscular body was not among the still forms. Pejar’s was.
She looked again, and recalculated: five still live.
There was a ninth here, but not a body. More of
a…pile. A spear was driven into the ground behind the shambles, with Arhys’s disfigured head displayed atop the shaft, peering out sightlessly over the Jokonan camp. The once-ravishing eyes had been cut out by whatever fear-maddened soldier had sought revenge upon the emptied form.
Too late. He was gone before you got there, Jokonan. Her bare feet faltered over some root, and she gasped in pain.
Illvin, striding forward, caught her arm before she tripped and fell headlong.
“They bait us. Look away,” he instructed through clenched teeth. “Do not faint. Or vomit.”
He looked ready to do both, she thought. His countenance was as gray as any of the corpses’, though his eyes burned like nothing she had ever seen in a man’s face.
“It’s not that,” she whispered back. “I have lost the god.”
His brows flickered in consternation and confusion. The bronze-skinned officer, his sword out, gestured them along toward the far edge of the grove, though he did not force Illvin from her side. Maybe she, too, looked as though she were about to faint.
She thought Illvin’s judgment of baiting to be precise. If either of them had still concealed any uncanny power—or any strength at all—that display might well have drawn it out of them, in some furious, futile lashing at their complacent enemies. If she had been either a sorceress or a swordsman, she swore the prince would not have survived the smirk he had cast over his shoulder as she’d stumbled past Arhys’s remains. From a failed saint, the Jokonans were quite safe, it seemed.
“They meant to march Catti past that,” Illvin muttered under his breath. “Add it to their tally, and five gods grant I may be the one to come collect…” His eyes didn’t stop glancing from tent to tent, tracing the path of last night’s destruction, summing the condition of the men and horses that they passed. Thin silver tracks slid down his face, but his hand scorned to wipe at them, under the gaze of the few dozen jeering soldiers crowded up to watch their little parade. Ista did not know enough vile Roknari to translate the insults, though Illvin no doubt did. His dogged mutter continued, “They’re not preparing to strike camp. They’re preparing an assault. Are we surprised? Ha. One thing shows—they don’t know how weak we’ve grown. Or they’d be preparing for a romp…”
Was he trying to distract his senses from the Jokonan desecration of his brother’s corpse? She prayed the ploy might serve him. She tried to extend her own blinded senses for any breath of the god, anywhere. Nothing. Joen and Sordso had placed Arhys’s head along her path to be a symbol of her failure, a hammerblow of despair. I wonder if Arvol dy Lutez felt as bereft as this, when his dangling hair touched the water for the second time?
And yet the symbol turned beneath her enemies’ feet, for the reminder of defeat was also a reminder of triumph. A presence in an absence. Strange.
The god may be absent, but I am still present. Maybe this is a task for dense matter, to do what matter does best: persist. So. She took a breath and kept on walking.
They arrived before the largest of the green tents. One side was rolled up, revealing what appeared to be nothing so much as a portable throne room. Rugs were strewn thickly across the ground. A dais ran along the back, supporting a pair of carved chairs decorated in gold leaf, and a scattering of cushions for lesser haunches. The pious dark green of staid and stern maternal widowhood was everywhere, overpowering even the sea-green of Jokonan arms, and never had Ista loathed the color more.
Dowager Princess Joen, dressed in a different but equally elaborate layering of stiff gowns from when they had—five gods, was it only this time yesterday that they had met upon the road?—sat in the smaller, lower of the two chairs. Her woman attendants knelt upon the cushions, and a drab, moonfaced young woman who might be another daughter crouched at her feet. Ista could not tell how many of them were sorceresses. A dozen officers stood at painful attention along each side. Ista wondered if all eleven of Joen’s surviving leashed demons were present for this…demonstration.
Twelve. Foix stood rigidly among the Jokonan officers. His face was bruised and cut, but cleaned, and he was dressed anew in Jokonan garb and a green tabard with white pelicans flying. His expression was dazed, his weird smile forced and unnatural. Ista didn’t even need her lost sight to be certain that a glittering new snake floated from the woman on the dais to him, and that its fangs were sunk deeply into his belly. Illvin’s eyes, too, passed across Foix; and his jaw set, if possible, even more tightly.
The possibilities for more cruel baiting were endless. Fortunately, perhaps, time was not. The bronze-haired officer gestured Ista forward to the middle of the carpets, to the center of this brief set piece of power, facing Joen. Illvin was stopped at sword’s point a few paces back, behind Ista’s right shoulder, and she was more sorry that she could not see him than that he could see her. She wondered what final stamp of humiliation had been prepared for her.
Oh. Of course. Not humiliation. Control. The humiliation out there had been to gratify Sordso’s sortie-stung troops. The woman in here was more practical.
Ista blinked, seeing Joen for the first time without inner sight, without the vast dark menace of the demon glowering from her belly like some pitch-black pit into which one might fall forever. Without her demon, she was just…a little, sour, aging woman. Unable to command respect or compel loyalty; easy to escape. Small. Five gods, but she was small, all her possibilities shrunken in upon herself: her only recourse, force. Stubborn will without scope of mind.
Ista’s mother had once filled her household with her authority from wall to wall. The Provincara’s husband had ruled Baocia, but within his own castle even he had lived on her sufferance. Ista’s eldest brother, upon inheriting his father’s seat, had found it easier to move his capital to escape the permanent childhood that awaited him in his mother’s house than to attempt to claim rule there. Yet even at her direst, the old Provincara had known her limits, and had chosen no space larger than what she could fill.
Joen, it seemed to Ista, was trying to fill Jokona with her authority as a woman filled a household, and by the same techniques; and no one could stretch herself that far. In an unbounded world of infinite space, one might move at will, but perforce must leave room for the wills of others. Not even the gods controlled it all. Men enslaved each other’s bodies, but the silent will of the soul was sacred and inviolable to the gods if anything was. Joen was seizing her slaves from the inside out. What Joen did to her enemies might be named war; what she did to her own people was sacrilege.
Prince Sordso took his high seat, flinging himself into the chair with a habit of body not yet eradicated by his new demonic discipline. He grimaced around the chamber. His mother’s gaze fell on him, and he sat up straight, attentive.
Ista’s eye was drawn again to the moonfaced princess at Joen’s feet. The girl seemed to be about fourteen, but stunted for her age, with the stubby fingers and odd eyes of one of those late-life children born sadly lack-witted, and who often did not live long. She was one princess who would not escape her mother’s household via marriage to some distant country. Joen’s hand fell upon her head, although not in a caress, and it came to Ista: She’s using the girl for a demon repository. Her own disdained daughter’s soul is made a stall for it.
The demon that she intends next to set in me.
Joen stood up, facing Ista. In heavily accented Ibran, she said, “Welcome to my gates, Ista dy Chalion. I am the Mother of Jokona.” Her hand lifted from the girl’s head, flicked out, fingers spreading.
Within Ista, the god unfolded.
Her second sight burst anew upon Ista’s mind like a dazzling lightning stroke, brilliant beyond hope, revealing an eerie landscape. She saw it all, at one glance: the dozen demons, the swirling, crackling lines of power, the agonized souls, Joen’s dark, dense, writhing passenger. The thirteenth demon, spinning wildly through the air toward her, trailing its evil umbilicus.
Ista opened her jaws in a fierce grin, and took it in a gulp.
“Welcome t
o mine, Joen of Jokona,” said Ista. “I am the Mouth of Hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A WAVE OF LIGHT PASSED ALONG THE DEEP VIOLET CORD BETWEEN Joen and Ista, and its color and brilliance seemed to intensify. Was Joen’s first shocked impulse to strengthen her line? For a dizzy instant, Ista wondered who was the fisherwoman and who the fish. Then she felt the struggling, panicked young demon pass firmly into the Bastard’s hands, within her.
You have hooked a god, Joen. Now what shall you do? It was as though a galley had thrown a grappling hook onto a continent, thinking to tow it away.
“She bears the demon-god!” Joen screamed. “Kill her now!”
Yes. That would do…
Yet even as Joen cried out, time seemed to stretch in Ista’s perceptions like cold honey spinning off a spoon on a winter morning. She did not think it would stretch indefinitely.
Where should I begin? Ista asked the Presence within her.
Begin at the center, It replied. The rest will follow perforce.
She opened her material hands and let her spirit hands flow out along the violet cable. Enter Joen’s body through that channel. Wrap the dark mass, and pull it out toward her. It came resisting, surging and spitting, streaming corrosive violet shadows like water spilling. It burned her spirit hands like vitriol, and she gasped with the unexpected pain, which seemed to strike down into the center of her being and pulse back out to every extremity, the way the shock of a great wound reverberated in a body. The creature was very dense, and ugly. And large. And old, centuries old, rotten with time.
It is hideous.
Yes, said the god. Go on anyway. Finish Arhys’s ride.
Ista’s material hands were too sluggish to keep up with her streaming will. With her spirit hands alone, she combed back the strands of Joen’s soul tangled with the demon. Yet as fast as she did so, Joen flung out tendrils of cold white fire to wrap the demon round again and pull it back. The demon shrieked.
The Complete Chalion Page 92