Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (15 page)

           
"A little of your time, an
honest exchange." She saw him smile. "Did you think to conceal what
you are from a wazir? The gift of tongues requires that I enter the mind. I saw
that power that invests Calandryll, the presence of Ahrd in Bracht's veins— did
you believe I'd not see what you are?"

           
Cennaire frowned. Had she owned a
heart, it would race now. She shrugged, saying, "I wondered."

           
"And wondered, too, what I
should do, no? And when I did nothing—said nothing—you hoped you'd gone
unrecognized. Eh?"

           
She nodded, wondering what game he
played. That of Anomius, of Rhythamun? Was she fallen into the hands of another
ruthless warlock?

           
It seemed her doubts showed, for
Ochen chuckled again and she smelled his amusement, his desire to reassure.

           
"I'd not see the Mad God risen,
be that what you fear,” he murmured. "Nor—for now, at least— would I
reveal you, or destroy you."

           
"For now?" she whispered,
not doubting he could make good that veiled threat. "What then do you
want?"

           
"An explanation," he
returned. "I'd know why you league with these questers, who know not what
you are."

           
"And then?"

           
"And then I must decide."

           
He had no need to add, "Your
fate," and Cennaire ran a pink tongue over lips that seemed abruptly emptied
of blood. In that instant she was absolutely confident this ancient mage
could
destroy her, and that her
existence depended on satisfying him. Her initial impulse was to lie, to
concoct some yarn, but Ochen's gentle voice put thoughts of subterfuge aside.

           
"No Jesseryte band attacked
your caravan," he said with absolute certainty. "Neither kotu nor
tensai. That was merely a ploy, no? To win the sympathy of those three honest
folk? A wizard of great power made you, and my guess is he sent you out after
the Arcanum. Do you tell me true, perhaps we shall reach some accommodation. Do
you lie—and I shall know it, doubt that not!—then . . ."

           
A hand, mottled dark with time's
spotting, gestured, the movement implicit. Cennaire drew deep breaths, aware
that she was firmly snared, trapped in her deceit; that truth appeared the sole
avenue of escape. She looked him in the eye and said, "I was taken from
the dungeons of Nhur-jabal, in Kandahar, by a warlock named Anomius. He . . .
made me what I am ... he took my heart ..."

           
The telling of it, cold and clear,
seemed somehow to set the act in starker light, to grant her an awareness,
objective, of what had been done to her.

           
It seemed, perhaps because she felt
Ochen radiate sympathy, as much a curse as gift now, and as she spoke she felt
resentment of Anomius grow.

           
She told the ancient sorcerer
everything, holding nothing back, and when she was done, it was as if she had
enacted some penance, Ochen's response a benediction.

           
"Such magic is foul," he
murmured with disgust. "This Anomius must be a filthy creature to so abuse
his talent."

           
"But still he holds my
heart," she said.

           
"And would you have it
back?"

           
The question was mildly put; it rang
in her ears like a clarion. She saw his eyes between the wrinkled, hooded lids,
bright, studying her, and said without hesitation, "Aye."

           
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
"As you are, you possess such powers as mortal folk only dream of. As you
are, you need not die."

           
Cennaire paused, wondering if he
baited her, or set some subtle trap. She watched his face: it was inscrutable.
At last, slowly, she said, "I'd name no man my master, save I choose it be
so."

           
"Calandryll?" His voice
was even, empty of expression,- she felt his magic as a shield about him, the
wafting scent of almonds denying her senses' interpretation.

           
"Calandryll?" she
returned, seeking time, confused.

           
"He's a comely youth. He's
clearly enchanted by you. And I've the feeling you find his attentions not
unwelcome."

           
"No," she admitted,
struggling to rally her thoughts. "He is . . . Perhaps . . . But how
should he react to what I am?"

           
Ochen cocked his head, birdlike.
"At this moment," he said cheerfully, "I suspect he'd find the
notion revolting. Did he learn you go about Anomius's business, he might well
use that englamoured blade on you."

           
"Think you so?" Cennaire
asked, injecting the question with more confidence than she felt. "I think
perhaps he would not."

           
"You've a high opinion of him,
or of yourself," the mage returned. "Perhaps you speak aright, but
did he not, then surely Bracht would seek to slay you."

           
"I think he could not,"
she said. "Save you aid him."

           
"Aye." Ochen chuckled,
nodding. "And that I could do. And should, did it come to that—those three
are of paramount importance, while you ... I am not yet sure what part you
play."

           
"Then why let me survive?"

           
Ochen drew thoughtful fingers
through the silver strands of his mustache, observing her awhile with
twinkling, enigmatic eyes, and she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny,
feeling herself in some manner judged, wary of the outcome. She was thankful
when he answered: "I've my reasons— which need not concern you for the
moment."

           
"And you'll not expose
me?"

           
She spoke as calmly as she was able,
utterly confused. Ochen smiled, shook his head, and said, "No, save you
force me to it."

           
"Why not?" she asked
again.

           
And again he replied, "Fve my
reasons," amplifying a little: "I've the feeling of a design in this.
Beyond my comprehension, or yours, for now, but . . . something."

           
Cennaire's bewilderment increased.
Ochen sat silent, as if lost in thought. When he spoke, it was as though a
judgment was delivered, though how, or what the sentence might be, she could
not tell.

           
"The time will likely come when
you must make a choice. It will likely be a difficult choice—I'd urge you make
it wisely."

           
"I do not understand," she
murmured, brow furrowed.

           
"No," he returned equably,
"you'd not. Nor shall until the time arrives. When that day dawns,
remember this conversation. And along the road 'twixt now and then, learn."

           
Cennaire stared at the wrinkled
visage, puzzled, wondering if he spoke honestly, or if he hid intentions,
designs of his own. Trust was an unfamiliar element in the world she knew, but
for now it seemed he offered an alliance of some kind, a measure of safety, and
that she snatched eagerly.

           
"Until that time," she
agreed.

           
"So be it." Ochen rose,
smoothing his overrobe. "I bid you good night, then."

           
"Wait!" She reached out,
clutching at his arm, snatching back her hand as the almond scent grew instantly
stronger and she sensed the gathering power of his magic, like a blade poised
to strike. "What of Anomius? I am commanded to report as opportunity
permits, and should he wax impatient ..."

           
She fell silent, Ochen completing
the sentence for her: "He may decide to prick your heart a little. Aye,
there's that; nor would I have him interfere at this juncture." He stroked
his wispy beard, lost awhile in thought. "So: contact him. How is that
done?"

           
"I've a mirror," she
answered.

           
The wazir said, "Then use it.
But remember that such magic will be known to me, always."

           
"What shall I tell him?"
she asked, bewildered.

           
Ochen chuckled softly. "What he
doubtless wants to hear," he suggested. "That you ride with the
questers, north toward the Borrhun-maj. Make no mention of me, neither of
Anwar-teng nor the war. Does he wish to know where you are, tell him you find
refuge in a keep, among simple warriors who suspect nothing. Think you that
shall satisfy him?"

           
"Aye." Cennaire nodded.
"So long as he believes I continue after the Arcanum."

           
"Which"—Ochen smiled,
rising—"you do."

           
She watched, dumbstruck, as he went
to the door, pausing there to glance back. She thought she saw the slitted eyes
twinkle as he murmured, "And my apologies—I regret it was not Calandryll
who came to you."

           
The door closed on his laughter,- on
her bewilderment.

           
She sat awhile, staring at the wood,
her assumptions all in disarray, thrown into turmoil by the wazir's seemingly
equanimious acceptance of her condition. She had thought to find sorcerers ever
her enemies, save she serve them. Did she, then, serve Ochen in some fashion
beyond her fathoming? Was she become part of the quest? Was Ochen friend or
enemy? The answers lay beyond her grasp: all she knew for certain was that
Anomius still controlled her heart, was still her master in that, but that now,
to some extent at least, it seemed she danced to another's tune.

           
She drew deep breaths, seeking a
measure of calm, and when she found it, took out the mirror and began to speak
the words of the gramarye.

           
THE sweet scent of almonds filled
the chamber, the smooth silver surface of the mirror changing, swirling, like
clear water disturbed by a thrown pebble, a whirlpool of color forming there,
fading gradually into a darkness that seemed lit by distant, flickering fires.
Cennaire frowned, staring at the strange image, wondering if somehow, so far
from
Kandahar
, communication with her master became
impossible, or if Ochen's magicks denied the contact. She gasped as the image
shifted, distorting, revealing for a moment a brazier in which coals glowed
red, then darkness again, a hint of some night-lit brightness beyond, something
splattering against the surface, as though a stone were tossed back, toward
her. Instinctively, she drew back, seeing whatever had struck the companion
mirror smeared, all black then, then clear again, Anomius's face filling the
disk.

           
The ugly little sorcerer drew a
sleeve across his mouth, particles of food dislodging, some remaining about his
fleshy lips as he peered at her face, his own irritated as he said, "A
moment."

           
Cennaire saw the mirror obscured
once more and almost laughed as she realized he ate, and in his haste spat food
upon the surface. She quelled the impulse, waiting.

           
Then, curtly: "It's been long
enough. Where are you?"

           
"Across the Kess Imbrun,"
she replied, "on the Jesseryn Plain."

           
"What else lies across the Kess
Imbrun?" he snapped, churlish as ever. "Where exactly?"

           
"In a Jesseryte fort," she
told him. "A keep that guards the Daggan Vhe."

           
"With them?" His face came
closer, the mirror again marked by the food he still chewed. "With
Calandryll and the others?"

           
"Aye," she said.
"They found me as you promised, accepted my story. I go with them
now."

           
"And they suspect
nothing?" He rubbed a grimy hand over his mouth, turned away an instant to
spit. Cennaire heard the faint Sizzle as the gobbet struck the brazier.
"They trust you?"

           
"I am not sure," she
answered truthfully. "Calandryll, I think; but Bracht holds reservations,
and Katya, perhaps."

           
"Perhaps?" The mirror
swayed as he reached aside, settling as he brought a cup to his mouth, drinking
noisily. "How mean you, perhaps?"

           
"Bracht would have sent me
back," she said, "but Calandryll spoke for me."

           
Anomius snorted laughter, like a pig,
Cennaire thought, snuffling in dirt. "He takes a fancy?" asked the
warlock. "As I thought one of them would?"

           
Cennaire ducked her head, saying,
"Aye, he does. He's a gentle man."

           
Further laughter answered her words,
contemptuous of such definition, and Anomius demanded, "Has he taken you
to his bed yet?"

           
"No," she said, and again,
"he's a gentle man."

           
"He's a man and nothing
more," the wizard grunted, dismissive, "but no matter—work those
wiles you know so well and it shall come about. Bind him to you."

           
Cennaire nodded again, not speaking.

           
"So," Anomius said,
"you're with them and trusted; enough at least you shall continue with
them, no?"

           
"Enough," she returned,
"aye. Remember that I saw Rhythamun's new face, and that—"

           
The warlock overrode her words.
"Aye, Rhythamun!" he barked. "What of him? What of the
book?"

           
"He travels north, as best we
know." She paused a moment, ordering her thoughts, recalling what Ochen
allowed she might tell this disgusting little man, what to hold back. "He
slew the soldiers of this keep with magic. Calandryll believes he left
gramaryes behind, to ward his back, knowing he is pursued."

           
"And yet they survive?"
The sallow face contorted in a frown. "How so?"

           
Cennaire realized her mistake,
extemporized with truth and fiction: "Calandryll possesses a sword,
englamoured. He slew the creatures."

           
"Tell me," Anomius
commanded, "of this sword."

           
"It was enchanted by the
goddess Dera," she replied, nervous now, for her master's face grew angry.
"In Lysse, they said."

           
Anomius grunted, a finger probing in
his mouth, emerging with a sodden lump that he wiped on his robe. "So the
Younger Gods aid them?" he asked thoughtfully.

           
Cennaire wondered if an element of
doubt, of fear even, put the stridency in his voice, and nodded solemn
agreement. "They say that Burash brought them across the
Narrow
Sea
, and in Cuan na'For, Bracht was taken
prisoner and crucified, but Ahrd drove the nails from his hands and gave him
back life. Even brought them through the Cuan na'Dru."

           
Breath whistled wet from the
sorcerer's nostrils and for a while he was silent, his liquescent eyes pensive
as he rubbed at his nose. Finally he said, softer, "But they could not
halt Rhythamun, the Younger Gods."

           
Thinking it a question, Cennaire
answered, "It would seem not."

           
"Nor have they halted
you." If he heard her response he gave no sign, rather pursuing the train
of his own thoughts. "I think they must be weak, or limited in some way.
No matter—so long as you continue unhindered about my business."

           
"I do," she assured him,
now, more than ever, unsure whether that was truth or fable.

           
"And Rhythamun travels
northward, eh? Toward the Borrhun-maj?"

           
"They believe that," she
said, dissembling. "That Tharn must lie beyond the mountains."

           
"Flow shall they get there? I
know no more than any other of the Jesserytes, but they are acknowledged an
inhospitable folk. Shall they not turn you back?"

           
The question took Cennaire by
surprise. A woman less versed in dissimulation would likely have let fall the
truth then—have shown on her face, or by her reaction, that she hid things—but

           
Cennaire was practiced in
concealment, and retained her calm, though it cost her effort.

           
"It seems not," she said
smoothly. "The people of this keep are friendly enough."

           
"What people?" Anomius's
voice was an abruptly suspicious bark. "Did you not just advise me
Rhythamun slew the soldiery there?"

           
Almost, she was caught then, only
her quick wits saved her as she wove an elaboration. "Aye," she said,
"that's true. But some escaped to carry word, and others came. By the time
they arrived, Calandryll had slain the creatures Rhythamun left, and so the
Jesserytes hail him a hero."

           
Anomius was mollified: Cennaire
vented a sigh of relief she hoped went unnoticed. "And you with him?"
he demanded.

           
"I am counted one of
them," she agreed, expanding on her fabrication. "Now the Jesserytes
offer us aid. They grant us free passage over the Plain."

           
"Do they know of
Rhythamun?" the warlock snapped. "Of the Arcanum? Do they suspect
your purpose?"

           
"No and no," she said,
thinking fast, thinking to herself that this sorcerous game grew mightily
hazardous, "and again, no. They believe we travel to Vanu—Katya's
homeland—which lies within the foothills of the Borrhun-maj. No more than
that."

           
"Good," said Anomius.
"But how far ahead is Rhythamun?"

           
"Some few days," Cennaire
returned.

           
"Then do not linger,"
ordered the mage.

           
"Save you bid me quit their
company, I must travel at what pace they set," she said. "But they'd
not grant him advantage."

           
"No," he allowed, "likely
they'd not. Stay with them, for I still believe they must be the key to

           
Rhythamun's undoing, and thus most
useful tools to my purpose."

           
He chuckled at that, a horrid,
bubbling sound.
And I,
thought
Cennaire,
am no more. Only a tool—to be
discarded when my usefulness is spenti
Aloud, she asked, "When we find
him . . . what then? I think that sword Calandryll bears could slay even me.
And that he'd use it, did I attempt to take the book from him."

           
"Perhaps it could,"
Anomius agreed carelessly, and favored her with a pride-filled smile, "but
think you I fail to see that far ahead?"

           
"I know not what you think or
what you see," she replied honestly.

           
"Thus are you the servant, and
I the master," came the smug response. "But fear not—when the time is
right, I shall be there."

           
"How?" Cennaire made no
attempt now to conceal her surprise. "I thought you bound by magicks. Did
the Tryant's sorcerers not set enchanted fetters on you?"

           
"They did, curse them."
The unhandsome little man grew uglier as he scowled. "But I shall rid
myself of those hindrances ere long."

           
"How shall you do that?"
she asked, hiding sudden alarm behind a veil of flattery. "Are you so
mighty a sorcerer?"

           
"I am," he told her with
total, frightening conviction. "And soon these accursed bracelets shall be
removed. How need not concern you,- only that when I deem the moment right, I
shall translate myself to where you are."

           
Cennaire overcame her alarm,
struggling against confusion, seeing only one way his promise might be kept,
and that a fascinating thing, for it afforded her speculation of her own.
"Through the mirror?" she asked, carefully adding, "You are
truly a great mage."

           
"Did you doubt it?" he
asked vainly. "Aye, through the mirror, do you but show me what it
reveals."

           
"Of all the world's
mages," she said, her tone deliberately adulatory, "I think that only
you might overcome Rhythamun."

           
Anomius beamed, preening, basking in
her wisely chosen praise. "Aye," he agreed, "and so I shall,
when the time comes."

           
"Where are you now?" she
asked, deliberately humble, pandering to his conceit.

           
"Outside Mherut'yi," he
told her, vanity rendering him loquacious. "The town lies under siege,
defended by such gramaryes as only I may undo."

           
"And then?"

           
"Likely south to take those
other bastions Sathoman now holds. Wait!" The mirror was abruptly dark, as
if he thrust it into a sleeve. Cennaire heard faint voices, too muffled that
she could make out the words. Then Anomius's face returned. "These petty
wizards require me," he announced. "Contact me when next you
may."

           
"That may well be
difficult," she warned. "We ride out soon and there will likely be
little chance to speak unobserved."