Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (42 page)

           
They each then looked at him,
surprise in some eyes, solemnity in others, and Bracht said, "Aye, of
course we go on. What else?"

           
The Kern's tone suggested the
wizard's question was redundant, a foolishness. Calandryll chuckled, his spirit
rising. "Dera, but we've seen only a little bit of the world yet," he
announced. "Think you we'd leave the Jesseryn Plain unexplored?"

           
"Or the Borrhun-maj,"
Bracht added.

           
"Or whatever lies beyond,"
said Katya.

           
"Nor forget Vanu," the
Kern continued, grinning now. "Remember there's a matter I'd discuss with
your father."

           
Katya's smile grew broad, laughter
sparking in the grey of her eyes, though her voice was deliberately grave as
she said, "But only after the Arcanum is delivered safe to
destruction."

           
"Oh, aye," Bracht replied,
matching her tone. "Only after that small matter is settled."

           
Calandryll saw Chazali watching their
exchange with narrowed eyes, as if he wondered at their sanity, and found
himself laughing. Across the table, Cennaire looked from one to the other,
herself bemused that they found such humor in a situation so fraught with
peril, and realized her own lips stretched in a smile: such optimism, such
laughter, was infectious.

           
"We depart at dawn,"
Chazali declared, his tawny eyes solemn, wondering if he would ever properly
understand these strangers.

           
"And there's some small
business to conduct this night," said Ochen, turning toward Cennaire,
"be you ready."

           
Her laughter died; her expression
grew somber. She ducked her head: "As you wish."

           
THEIR
rooms were located on the topmost floor of the inn—the height commensurate
with status, Ochen explained—with narrow windows affording a view over the
rooftops of Ahgra-te, the beds wide, the floors richly carpeted. They were
spacious quarters, but still Cennaire's grew crowded as they gathered there,
listening to Ochen advise the woman what she should tell Anomius, and what hold
back.

           
She nodded solemnly at his
instructions and Katya drew the mirror from beneath her shirt, passing it to
Cennaire. The Kand woman took the glass from its pouch, warily, as if she
mistrusted the device. Calandryll saw her lick her lips, a hint of fear in her
dark eyes, and gently touched her shoulder.

           
Ochen said, "Now do I work my
own gramarye, and then you shall use the glass/
⁷

           
She nodded again, watching as the
sorcerer motioned the others to stand together, raising his hands as he began
to intone the arcane syllables of the spell. The scent of almonds flooded the
chamber, the forms of the questers and the wazir shimmering, disappearing.

           
Ochen's voice came out of nowhere:
⁷⁷
Do
we keep silent now. Cennaire, do you summon him?"

           
She ducked her head and mouthed the
cantrip taught her. The mirror swirled, colors vying in its surface, the almond
scent again sweet on the air, fading as the kaleidoscope resolved into the
unpleasant features of Anomius.

           
"You take your time,
woman."

           
The voice was faint, but still
distinct: Calandryll heard it and grimaced as he peered over Cennaire's
shoulder. Anomius grew no lovelier,- nor, it seemed, better humored.

           
"I've not had opportunity ere
now," she answered.

           
A snarl of disapproval, then:
"So tell me how you fare about my business."

           
"Well enough I think. We are in
a place named Ahgra-te, riding north after Rhythamun."

           
"You're close?"

           
"He's yet some distance ahead,
but we hope to overtake him."

           
"When?"

           
"I cannot say for sure. We ride
for the Borrhun- maj still, where they believe he must go. Also, we've learned
his name."

           
"That's little enough."

           
"Aye, but something, surely.
And what more might I do?"

           
"Um. They trust you still? They
do not sus- pect?
^,/

           
"No. They trust me—I am
accounted one with them now."

           
"Good. And Calandryll, Bracht?
Do you find favor with one or the other?"

           
Almost, Cennaire blushed then.
Certainly, she feared she should give herself away: it was an effort to hold
her expression confident as she replied, "Aye. I believe Calandryll favors
me."

           
"Excellent. What of the
Jesserytes?"

           
"They help us on our way. As I
told you before— they count Calandryll a hero for the slaying of Rhythamun's
creatures back on the Kess Imbrun. They still believe we travel to Vanu."

           
"I suppose I must be
satisfied."

           
"I can do no more, save I quit
their company and roam ahead of them. Would you have me do that?"

           
"No! That you remain with them
is paramount. It's still my belief that only they may wrest the Arcanum from
Rhythamun, and you shall be present then, the mirror ready."

           
"And you? Shall you come
then?"

           
"I shall. Oh, most definitely I
shall."

           
"Are you freed then? Have you
vanquished the Tyrant's sorcerers?"

           
"The time is not yet ripe. But
fear not, my creature. It shall be as I promise."

           
"You'll come when they've the
Arcanum?"

           
"Have I not told you so? Aye,
so long as you've the mirror, I've the means to join you. But not yet; for now
it's far better they know not my hand in this."

           
"And the war? How goes
that?"

           
"It draws to a conclusion. Xenomenus
holds all the coast now, with only Fayne Keep to take. Sathoman lairs there,
like a beaten animal. Were it not for the cursed Lyssians, I should have taken
that hold."

           
"What part do the Lyssians
take?"

           
"The god-cursed Domm of Secca
raises an invasion force. Our spies advise us he's a fleet at his command, and
the support of the western cities. They raise their army, thinking to strike
while we fight with Sathoman. Ha! Tobias den Karynth shall learn the error of
his pride, does he come against me."

           
"You?"

           
"Aye, me. Were it not for his
ambition, I'd have delivered Sathoman to the Tyrant ere now. But Xenomenus
would have all his sorcerers strengthen the defenses along the coast against
the Lyssian threat. In consequence, we delay the final conquest. E'en now I'm
in Ghombalar, warding against Lyssian attack."

           
"Alone, or do you work still
with the Tyrant's sorcerers?"

           
"I am forced to work with them.
But enough now recognize my powers that I am counted the mightiest among
them."

           
"And shall they therefore free
you?"

           
"Once Ghombalar and Vishat'yi
are secured against the Lyssians, we turn north again, to finish Sathoman. That
done, I'll have my freedom. By their will, or my own."

           
"You are truly the mightiest of
sorcerers, that you can break the gramaryers binding you."

           
"Indeed, I am. And even now
some speak to free me. Only mewling fools argue against that."

           
"But what if their voices are
heard?"

           
"Of that, I've thought, woman.
Xenomenus would have me deliver him Sathoman's head, and for that I must broach
the magicks defending Fayne Keep. Only I may do that, and once I have—think you
I'd not pondered the future? I left such occult devices in Faye Keep as shall
cut these fetters like melted butter. And then I shall be paramount. I need
only delay until you've found me the Arcanum. Now, enough. They approach, and
I'd not have them suspect what I do. Use the mirror again when you may. Until
then, go about my business."

           
"Aye, master. Farewell."

           
A swirl of color, the scent of
almonds, the mirror once more only a glass, a simple vanity. Cennaire let go a
long, slow breath, staring at her reflection a moment, suddenly aware how very
afraid she had been of facing Anomius, of lying to him. She felt a wash of
relief as she replaced the glass in its pouch and returned the package to
Katya. Only then did she turn, and Calandryll saw her shudder, her smooth
forehead moist. He moved toward her even as Ochen mouthed the cantrip that
restored him to sight, the chamber once more perfumed with almonds, taking her
hands as he saw them tremble. He felt her fingers tighten on his and smiled,
looking to comfort her, for he saw that she was anxious and more than a little
afraid.

           
"Was that done well?" she
asked nervously.

           
"Excellently," Ochen
declared. "I learned much from that. Anomius is far stronger than I'd
thought. We must play him carefully."

           
"You name that excellent?"
Bracht's voice regained a measure of suspicion. "Did I hear aright,
Anomius has the means to break his bonds and go where the mirror is. Is that
excellent?"

           
"To know that much of our
enemy?" Ochen countered. "Aye, I'd say it so."

           
"Do you explain?" Katya
suggested.

           
"We've some measure of his
strength now," Ochen replied. "We know his whereabouts, and that
he'll not attempt to interfere until he knows

           
Cennaire has the Arcanum in sight.
Thus, we may forget him for the while, save I think we might send him another
message when we reach Pamur- teng. But we need not fear his presence yet."

           
"Riddles," Bracht grunted.

           
The wazir chuckled, his ancient
visage creasing in myriad wrinkles. "Anomius suspects nothing," he
said confidently. "Do you not see? By means of that glass, thanks to
Cennaire, we may control Anomius. Now, the hour grows late, and we depart at
dawn—do we therefore find our beds?"

           
The Kern and Kakya nodded, voicing
agreement. Calandryll moved to follow them, but Cennaire clutched his hands, a
plea in her eyes as she studied his face.

           
"Do you remain awhile?"
she asked softly. "Pd have your company a little while, save you cannot
bear to be alone with me."

           
For an instant he hesitated,
embarrassed. Katya was already gone into the corridor, but Bracht paused, his
expression equivocal, then shrugged, going after her. Ochen smiled
mischievously, and before Calandryll had entirely made up his own mind, went
out, quietly closing the door.

           
"Do you ask it, Lady,"
Calandryll replied.

           
Cennaire said, "I do."

           
A chamber, starlight came faint
through the narrow window, affording the room a crepuscular intimacy that was
augmented by the absence of furniture. There was the bed, on which Cennaire
sat, and a faldstool. Calandryll would have gone to that, but the woman still
held his hand and he was loath to break that contact: he took a place beside
her, on the bed. It was, he noticed, easily wide enough for two. He caught the
scent of her fresh- washed hair, the musky perfume of her skin, and was
suddenly aware of the proximity of her body. He felt a dryness in his mouth and
swallowed, ran a tongue over his lips, looking down at her hand in his. It was
a small hand, and delicate, the skin smooth, warm: he could scarce believe the
strength he had witnessed there. He was simultaneously afraid to turn his head,
to look at her, and impelled to do so.

           
Her skin was very tan in the dim
light.
Sparks
of red and silver glinted in her hair. Her
eyes were huge, liquid pools. Her mouth seemed red as blood. He swallowed
again, those senses that were male and basic, unthinking, urged him to draw
closer, to put his arms around her and press her to the bed. He did not think
she would object; rather, he felt, as she returned his gaze, she would welcome
it. But still there remained, in that other part of his mind that was
objective, distanced and logical, the knowledge of what she was. He saw the
tiny tic of pulsing blood beneath the soft skin of her throat, and thought how
good, how sweet, to put his lips there, to taste her flesh beneath his tongue.
And then, a mental hand tugging at the sleeve of his desire, that no mortal
heart propelled that blood along its course. He closed his eyes a moment,
anguished, and cleared his throat.

           
"Lady?" His voice came
gruff and awkward to his ears and hers. "You'd speak with me?"

           
Cennaire ducked her head, studying
him from beneath long lashes, disappointment in her eyes, rapidly hidden, lest
he should believe she looked to seduce him, as Anomius had commanded. Might he
not believe that was her intent, even with a god as her guarantor? Burash, but
she wished he would hold her,- indeed, could scarce resist the impulse to touch
his face, draw his mouth toward hers, bring him down beside her on the bed. And
was horribly afraid he should pull back, that she would see loathing in his
eyes.

           
"I feared Anomius should know
what I did," she murmured, unable to repress the shudder that thought
brought. "I feared he should see through me, and destroy me. I'd not be
alone for a little while."

           
"Nor shall you be," he
promised. "Though you've naught to fear—he suspected nothing. You played
your part well."

           
She smiled, wan, and said, "But
still he has that power over me." She was reluctant to say out loud
"my heart" for the reminder it should give.

           
Calandryll said it for her:
"That he holds your heart in his ensorcelled pyxis? Aye, that's a terrible
power. But ..."

           
He paused, frowning, those thoughts
that had wandered the avenues of his mind since first she had told him of her
creation, of the power Anomius commanded, of the mirror, of all she'd done,
taking distinct shape, forming a potential resolution.

           
Cennaire waited, studying him with a
longing she could barely conceal. This was, beyond all doubt, love, that she
could take such pleasure from the simple observance of his features, of the
play of lantern's light in his sun-bleached hair. Desire, too, but of a kind
she had not known before, gentle as it was fierce, needing his approval, his
reciprocation, in equal measure with the simpler lust. She made no move, only
waited, content for the moment that he should still hold her hand and not spurn
her.

           
Slowly, a note of caution in his
voice, he said, "I've thought on that. Perhaps the mirror holds the
answer."

           
"How so?" she asked
tentatively when he fell silent again.

           
His eyes narrowed as he pondered,
looking not at her now, but into some future possibility. Then: "It's
clear what Anomius would have you do—ride with us until the Arcanum is secured,
then have you use the glass to bring him where we are. Doubtless he counts on
surprise and his own occult strength—likely your aid, too—to wrest the book
from us."

           
"Aye." Now Cennaire
frowned, wondering where his musing led. "That much seems clear."

           
"And," he continued,
"his power appears limited by distance, no less than those fetters he
wears. Why else send you about his business?"

           
"I do not understand," she
whispered, as hope arose.

           
"Were we to deceive him,"
he murmured, "to persuade him to come to some place far from Nhur-jabal,
where Ochen—the wazir-narimasu— might entrap him with their magic, then perhaps
he could not harm your heart. But you, knowing that gramarye of transportation,
might return to the citadel . . . Aye! Ochen with you, perhaps, if that be
possible. Or I. Then, it might be you could secure the pyxis unharmed, and
bring it to Anwar- teng, where the wazir-narimasu might return your heart, and
you become again ..."

           
He broke off, face flushed with
embarrassment, the fear that he should insult her, hurt her.

           
Now it was Cennaire who completed
the unfinished sentence: "Mortal? Think you that possible? That the
wazir-narimasu might give me back my heart?"

           
"Be they great as Ochen
claims," he said, nodding. "Then aye, I do. Though I'd speak of this
with Ochen ere such attempt be made."

           
"But you?" Excitement was
in her voice, hope. "Think you it might be done? Truly?"

           
He faced her then, solemn, and said,
"'Twas sorcery took your heart; surely then, sorcery might restore it to
you."

           
"The gods grant it may be
so," she said fervently, hands tightening on his. Then lowered her eyes,
herself embarrassed now, and that an unfamiliar feeling. "And then should
you truly love me?"

           
"Lady," he answered,
"I love you now."

           
"But this"—she loosed one
hand to touch her breast, Calandryll's eyes following the movement, his breath
a sudden intake—"this . . . absence . . . stands between us."

           
He was abruptly flustered, cheeks
reddened, his gaze shifting, from where her hand pressed tight the material of
her shirt, to her face. Awkwardly, honestly, he answered, "Cennaire, I
cannot tell you it be otherwise. Dera, but could I only forget that! Could I,
then I should; but I cannot. I love you, but I cannot forget that."

           
She wondered then what clouded her
vision, surprised to realize it was the moisture of tears: it was an unfamiliar
sensation. She let them flow, unable to stem that flood, uncaring, staring
blindly at his face as she wept in mournful silence.

           
Calandryll reacted without thought,
simple emotion controlling him as he loosed her grip upon his hand and reached
to touch her cheek, his fingers gentle, moving as though of their own accord to
her shoulders, to her hair. He drew her close, his arms around her, his face
buried in the raven hair, feeling her embrace, the trembling of her body
against his chest. Helplessly, he whispered, "Cennaire, I love you. I pray
we may regain your heart. I love you."

           
"And I you," he heard her
mumble, her lips soft against his throat, where his shirt hung open. "But
still this stands between us."

           
It was pain to them both as he
answered, "I cannot deny it. Forgive me, but I cannot."

           
"You've nothing to
forgive." A shock ran through him as her mouth moved against his flesh.
"It is I should ask that. For all I've done, and all I've been."

           
No!" He pushed her back, a hand
upon her shoulder, a hand against her cheek. "What you've done and been,
that lies in the past. It means nothing! Has Horul himself not absolved you?
Should I deny a god? Dera, but even Bracht admits error in this, agrees you
become one with our quest."

           
He forbore to mention the Kern was
not yet entirely resolved. That would come to pass, he was certain—for now he
wished only to reassure her, to comfort her. The tears that glistened on her
cheeks struck pain into him, each droplet a needle pricking his soul.

           
"Katya said the same," she
murmured, endeavoring without success to stifle her sobs. "I hoped,
therefore ..."

           
Her voice tailed off and she sat,
her shoulders, her breast, shaking as she wept, her eyes luminous, shedding
tears that ran unhindered down her cheeks. Calandryll was barely conscious what
he did then, compelled by a need that transcended logic, dismissed memory,
banished hesitation. He saw before him only a weeping woman: the woman he
loved; not sorcery's creation, but a woman, beautiful, sobbing. He knew not how
the distance between them closed, only that he kissed her, that she responded,
that her lips were soft, salted with her tears. It seemed that gravity laid
them across the bed, that a force beyond his understanding commanded his hands,
his fingers. He was not sure how it came about that his clothing was gone, and
hers, only that now he knew no reservations, that what she was no longer had
meaning, save that she was a woman and he loved her. He was little enough
experienced, and she, for all she was well versed in such matters, felt herself
virginal, even as she held him and guided him, her tears drying, replaced with
joy as he came to her.

           
She felt reborn as they lay
together, the past—as he had told her—dismissed, she with her first true lover.
He had not known it should be like this, so urgent and so fond, such pleasure
found in her pleasure, his a wakening fire answered by hers, desire augmented
by love.

           
THEY
lay together, entwined, as the night fell down into still darkness and then
the pearly announcement of dawn. A cock crowed, a dog barked, Ahgra-te began to
wake. Calandryll stirred, at first unsure where he lay, wondering at the soft
warmth that pressed against him, the musky scent that filled his nostrils. He
opened his eyes, the sun not yet above the horizon, and in the gloom saw
Cennaire's sleeping face,, her hair a blue-black spread across the pillows, her
body outlined beneath the tumbled sheets. He felt desire move anew, and then,
as if she sensed his eyes upon her, hers opened and he wondered—a fleeting,
guilty thought—if her preternatural senses told her she was watched.

           
An instant of remorse then, a pang
of guilt, banished as she opened her arms and murmured, "I love you."

           
"And I you," he answered,
going to her again.

           
When both were spent, stretched
languid with their arms about each other, he wondered what Bracht, what Katya,
should think of this, and then day and all its concerns impinged. Gently, he
disengaged her arms and pushed aside the sheets, once more awkward, embarrassed
as he wondered what his comrades might say did they learn that he and Cennaire
were now lovers.

           
"We depart at dawn," he
said. "I had best find my chamber."

           
"Do you tire of me
already?"

           
There was coquetry in her question
that he, in his lack of experience, failed to recognize, answering earnestly,
"Never! But ..."