Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (16 page)

           
She spoke only the truth, albeit her
motives were mixed. In such close company as their progress across the Plain
must bring, with Ochen in attendance, it would, indeed, be hard to use the
mirror unnoticed; but also she sought to buy herself time, to allow an ordering
of her thoughts, perhaps even a settlement of her loyalties, but without
incurring suspicion or wrath. She watched the mirror, Anomius's face there,
puckered in a frown, or a scowl—his visage was such the two were
indistinguishable—awaiting his response.

           
"Aye," he said at last,
though reluctantly. "When you may, then."

           
"I shall," she returned.

           
He nodded, grunted, and mumbled the
words that ended the enchantment, his image fading, replaced a moment by the
spectral colors. The almond scent strengthened, then was gone, and the mirror
became again only a disk of glass. Cennaire set it aside, not moving, staring
at the rectangle of night framed by the window as her mind raced, assessing all
she had learned, and how it might be turned to advantage.

           
She was more than a little
frightened, for Anomius was clearly confident he would soon rid himself of the
occult confinements that bound him to the Tyrant's service, and were he able to
travel at will he might feel no further need of her. Save, she thought, that he
must have the mirror's sight to define his location. She knew enough of magic
that she was aware a sorcerer might translate himself safely only to a known
destination, one he could see or clearly reconstruct in memory.

           
So, the thought reassuring, he would
likely leave her to continue with the questers until such time as they came
upon Rhythamun or secured the Arcanum
_;
and that time he could know
only through her agency. Until then, did she but placate his impatience, she
was safe.

           
Comforted by that conclusion she
turned her mind to those other tidbits of knowledge he had so casually let
slip. He had taught her the cantrip of transportation—she had used it
before—but it had not until now occurred to her that by that means she was able
to translate herself to his chambers in

           
Nhur-jabal. The notion excited her:
her heart, he had told her, lay there, in the pyxis.

           
Almost, she conjured the image of
the room, spoke the words, thinking that did she but go there, she might find
her heart and once again own herself, define her allegiances for herself.
Common sense stopped her, the half-formed words dying on her tongue. He was not
so careless, not so foolish. Vain, undoubtedly,- crazed, too. But imbued with a
horrid cunning that would surely have prompted him to encompass the pyxis with
protective gram- aryes. Likely he had placed such enchantments on the box, on
the chamber, even, as would destroy her heart did she attempt its removal.

           
No, that thought accompanied by a
bitter curse, that was not the way, save in desperation. Still she must dance
to his tune, reliant on his humors as he was on her enforced loyalty. It was an
impasse from which she could see no escape but to go on, ostensibly his servant
still.

           
Even so, there was power in
knowledge,- not yet of much use, but in the future, did she but continue to
learn all she could of wizards and wizardry . . . then, perhaps, she might
regain her heart, become again her own woman.

           
What she would do, she did not know.
As Ochen had remarked, there were many who would envy those powers she now
commanded. She was perhaps immortal, certainly she owned a strength and a
stamina beyond mortal imagining, her preternatural senses alone granted her
tremendous advantage over human folk, and one gramarye was already hers—might
she not learn others?

           
Outside, a night bird sang, and its
call seemed to mock her. She was powerful beyond men's envisioning, and yet
still trapped: heartless, she was prepotent; heartless, she was at the mercy of
her heart's possessor. She stared blindly at the night sky, all set with stars,
the near-full moon westering toward its setting. A bank of silvered cloud
drifted leisurely on the wind's idle breath. Men moved along the ramparts:
plain, simple men, whose concerns were ordinary. For a moment she envied them,
then her nostrils caught the faint odor of almonds and she thought again of
Ochen. Another hand on the strings of her destiny? She was not sure; confused
by the wazir's promises and warnings, she could not know whether he was friend
or foe. His words had implied friendship, rather than enmity; at least an
alliance of sorts. But what were his reasons, what his motives? Those remained
hidden, inscrutable as the ancient face that revealed only what he chose to
show.

           
She wondered then if she should tell
him everything Anomius had said. No doubt he would inquire, and that the
warlock believed he should soon be free of 'magical bonds was dramatic news.
But how would Ochen react? Would he destroy the mirror, for fear of its aiding
Anomius; and what might Anomius do then? Would Ochen expose her? Fleetingly,
she thought of Calandryll, of his reaction, then pushed the thought firmly
aside, for it served only to confuse her further and she felt now that she
balanced her own survival.

           
To warn Ochen, or not?

           
It was a quandary from which only
one certainty emerged: she did not want to die.

           
Whether or not she wished for
immortality— whether or not that was possible—she was not sure. But she was
certain she was not yet ready to give up her unnatural life.

           
Therefore, she decided as the sky
outside paled to the opalescent grey of heralded dawn, she would continue to
play the double game, to tell each mage in turn only so much and no more. She
would hold back from Ochen the news that Anomius believed he should soon be
freed just as she kept Ochen's existence from Anomius. She would continue in
her role of willing servant until such time as she must finally choose her
side, hoping along the way to glean more knowledge, to find answers to the
dilemma.

           
It was all she could think of, and
she turned from the brightening window, lying back on the bed, closing her eyes
in simulation of ordinary sleep.

           
MORNING
delivered no better answers, serving, rather, to muddle her the more.

           
She heard the keep wake, birds
singing, men calling in the Jesseryte tongue, the snort and stamp of exercised
horses, the rattle of metal and leather, the ring of hooves and boots. Scents
rose in profusion, intoxicating: the sweat of animals and men, fresh dung,
woodsmoke, cooking food, the pristine odor of stone overlaid with the aftermath
of Ochen's cleansing magic, and still, loud to her senses, the lingering
offense of Rhythamun's. She rose and performed her toilette, wondering whether
she should dress in the finery of the previous night or the robust leathers
worn when she crossed Cuan na'For. The resplendent Jesseryte costume was more to
her taste, but she thought it perhaps excessive, and so chose the simpler
outfit, likely more acceptable to her . . . She was not sure . . . Companions?
Comrades? She cursed, unladylike, angry with herself; for her own confusion,
and no less with the men who tugged the strings of her destiny. She laced the
leathers and went to lean, idly, on the embrasure's sill, watching the bustle
in the yard below, the wash of early morning sunlight over the ramparts, until
a knocking on her door distracted her.

           
She found Katya outside, simply
dressed, confirming her own choice of clothing, the Vanu woman smiling a
greeting, the suggestion they avail themselves of the bathhouse in privacy. She
agreed, wondering if this were some subterfuge, a pretext to questioning. Instead,
Katya appeared only friendly, engaging in casual conversation, as though the
previous night, Ochen's acceptance of her, confirmed her allegiance, dispelling
any doubts the warrior woman might have entertained. She spoke of the quest and
Bracht's vow—that seeming mightily strange to Cennaire—and of the journey
ahead. In turn, Cennaire constructed a tale of her life in
Kandahar
, of a brief marriage, tragically ended,
that left her with funds sufficient to invest in the imaginary caravan and a
desire to see something of the larger world.

           
Katya laughed at that and said,
"That much, at least, is granted you. I think none have gone where we
shall travel."

           
Cennaire laughed back and said,
"I wonder if I shall ever see
Kandahar
again."

           
Then Katya's face grew solemn and
she said, "You might yet go back. It would surely be hard journeying, but
likely easier than where we must go."

           
Cennaire shook her head. "No, I
think I could not do that now." She brushed long strands of hair from her
face, affecting a degree of embarrassment, that she might watch the flaxen
woman from under lowered lashes. "I cannot say exactly why, but I feel . .
. destined ... to go with you."

           
"Perhaps," said Katya in
serious tones, "you are. It would seem a strange coincidence that you came
to the Daggan Vhe at that particular time, that you should meet us as you
did."

           
Cennaire nodded, busying herself
with soap as she utilized her senses to determine if suspicion lay behind
Katya's musing words. She found none, only acceptance, a proffered friendship,
a trifle wary, but nonetheless genuine. It seemed then that her initial
assumption had been correct: that Ochen's approbation was sufficient guarantee
of her probity. ,

           
"Perhaps," Katya went on
when Cennaire offered no reply, "the Younger Gods brought you there. They
take a hand in this, as they may, and perhaps you've a part to play."

           
"Think you so?" Cennaire
had no need to feign puzzlement. "How might that be?"

           
"I make no pretense of
understanding the workings of the gods," Katya answered. "But that
you were in that particular place, at that particular time ..." She
shrugged, water streaming from bronzed shoulders, and smiled mischievously,
"Certainly Calandryll believes it so."

           
Cennaire lowered her face,
pretending modesty, and said, "He is very handsome. And a prince of
Lysse—I was surprised he is not wed."

           
"He's a prince no longer, but
an outlaw," Katya replied. "He was in love once, but she wed his
brother."

           
"And is he still?"
Cennaire asked.

           
"With her?" Katya said.
"No."

           
Cennaire smiled then, and murmured,
"Good."

           
Katya nodded without offering
further comment, instead suggesting that they quit the bath and find their
breakfasts, with which Cennaire agreed, not wishing to overplay her hand.

           
They found the hall, Calandryll and
Bracht already settled, eating, Ochen and Chazali with them, greeting the two
women courteously as they approached. Cennaire looked toward the wazir, but his
wrinkled face remained inscrutable behind its smile, and he went rapidly back
to his conversation with the kiriwashen. Katya took a place at Bracht's side,
answering the Kern's smile with her own, their voices soft as they spoke,
excluding the others. Cennaire favored Calandryll with a demure smile as he
drew back a stool, murmuring her thanks, pleasantly amused by the flush that
promptly suffused his cheeks.

           
"We may leave tomorrow,"
he advised her, struggling to hide the confusion her proximity aroused.
"Ochen will have cleansed the keep by then, he says, and we depart at
dawn."

           
Cennaire nodded, accepting the food
a servant set before her, eating with pretended appetite as Calandryll made
small talk that to his ears sounded clumsy, to hers charming. Her life, her
beauty, had put her often enough in the way of compliments and men's boasting,
and usually their approach had been direct—the negotiation of a commercial
transaction larded with fine words—and she found Calandryll's innocence
refreshing. That he had not the least idea she was once a courtesan made little
difference: he might well have boasted of his own exploits, which far
outweighed the petty feats of her sundry other admirers, but that was not his
way. He complimented her, yes, but awkwardly, and honestly, as if quite
unaccustomed to the ritual interchanges between men and women, and that she found
entirely engaging. She eased his way a little; not too much, for she remembered
her part and forwent the myriad tricks and subtleties she might otherwise have
employed, but just enough he began to feel more at ease, less embarrassed.