Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (45 page)

           
The sun continued its ascent until
it stood directly above them, and then moved on toward the west, but Chazali
called no halt, holding a steady pace until early afternoon, when they breasted
the last heights of the Ahgra Danji.

           
As at the foot, the summit of the
road was marked with stelae, set like great sentinels on the very edge of the
cliff. Chazali rode on a little way and raised a hand, calling for a halt
beside a stonewalled basin fed from the river that splashed nearby before
tumbling in a rainbow spray over the rimrock. The kotu-zen began to dismount,
but Calandryll sat his gelding awhile, staring at the terrain ahead.

           
It was unlike any he had encountered
in all his traveling: a panorama of flat grey-green that swept away as far as
the eye could see, unbroken save for stumpy turrets of grey in the distance
that seemed scoured smooth by the wind. That blew stronger here, and far colder
than across the lowlands, setting the surface of the odd landscape to rippling,
like the water of a scummy pond. He sprang down, aware now that the coloration
was that of scrubby grass covering arid, stony soil. The wind struck sharp on
his skin, a reminder that autumn advanced, bringing with it the threat of
winter. He brought the chestnut to the drinking trough, still staring
northward, thinking how this Jesseryn Plain must be under snow: it was a
disturbing thought, knowing Rhythamun ten days ahead.

           
"You are pensive."

           
He turned at the sound of Cennaire's
voice, seeing her hair streamered on the wind, a sable contrast to the clouds
above, and smiled, resisting the urge to draw her close, at least take her hand
and hold it awhile. Instead, he nodded, running fingers through the gelding's
mane, and answered, "I thought of how this Plain must be in winter."

           
She, better used to the warm clime
of
Kandahar
, shivered, and said, "Aye. I think it
must be an inhospitable place."

           
Chazali, overhearing their words,
said, "It is cold, aye. But not so bad. Our winters are mostly spent
within the holds, protected and warm."

           
"But this season," asked
Calandryll, "with the war raging? Or shall it halt for winter?"

           
The kiriwashen shook his head.
"I think this war shall continue. I think Tharn fuels the hearts of those
mad enough to warm their hands at his fire."

           
"Save we overtake
Rhythamun," Calandryll replied, "and take the Arcanum from him."

           
"Horul grant it be so,"
Chazali returned gravely, and favored them'both with an impassive stare.
"At least we shall make better time here. Save the warlock has left
another rearguard."

           
His remark prompted Calandryll to
savor the air, easing a fraction the occult protections he now set up by habit.
Immediately, he drew them close again: the land stank of evil, of malign chaos.
It was, in physical terms, as if a thousand carcasses rotted, their stench
carried on the wind. It insulted his nostrils, assailed his senses, leaving a
filthy taste on his tongue. Now he shivered, and Cennaire asked, "Does
this cold afflict you?"

           
He shook his head, palming water
from the well, that he might swill out his mouth and rid it of the aethyric
sapor. "Not that," he answered, "but the malignity that rides
the wind. Do you not sense it?"

           
She frowned, shaping a negative
gesture. "I've not that power you command."

           
"Almost, I'd sooner not possess
such ability." He shuddered, looking to the north, toward the wind's
source. "It's a charnel thing."

           
"Tharn's dreaming breath."
Ochen joined them as the kotu-zen brought food from saddlebags replenished in
Ahgra-te. "Do you hold close those protections I've taught you,
Calandryll."

           
"I shall," he replied
decisively. "Dera, but to know that reek could leech out the senses."

           
"Aye." Ochen nodded,
agreeing, his seamed face grave. "That and worse. Overmuch of that
awareness can overturn the mind, bring the pneuma more readily within the aegis
of the Mad God."

           
"Then I'm glad I've no such
talent," Cennaire observed, "for it seems as much curse as
blessing."

           
"Is not all power?" asked
the wazir, his voice mild. "The occult talent, swordskill, wealth, they
all may work for good or ill. Their use is dependent on the owner."

           
"There are philosophers in
Lysse claim power corrupts," Calandryll remarked, "that the greater a
man owns power, the greater becomes his corruption."

           
"It is likely so," Ochen
returned, "for men are generally far weaker than they think, and shorter
of sight. Certainly, the wazir-narimasu are of similar . opinion—hence do they
forswear the belligerent usage of the magicks they command."

           
"They must be very wise,"
Cennaire opined.

           
"And I'd speak of them,"
said Calandryll. "What they might accomplish."

           
"Aye, do you wish it." Did
Ochen's face cloud then? "But not now. Tonight, perhaps, have we
time."

           
And Calandryll must be content with
that, for the kotu-zen already ate, and Bracht called for him to follow suit,
lest he ride hungry through the afternoon. He had sooner done that, and talked
with Ochen, but the wazir answered the Kern's shout with his own, and they went
to where Bracht and Katya lounged on the impoverished grass.

           
It was a meal taken swiftly, Chazali
soon enough calling for them to mount and be gone, and they climbed once more
astride their horses, commencing their northward journey at a steady canter.

           
AFTERNOON advanced toward dusk. The
turrets Calandryll had seen from the rim of the Ahgra Danji came closer,
resolving into squat, smooth buttes of yellowish-grey. They stood like stubby
fingers, pointing in reprimand of the wind that scoured their flanks, and as
the sun closed on the skyline and a moon now waned to a sliver clambered up the
sky, and stars pricked through the burgeoning twilight, it seemed almost that
they supported the heavens, like pillars.

           
The sun fell below the far horizon,
painting the sky there red for a while, then giving up its hold, leaving the
welkin to the moon and- its attendant stars. The grass shone silvery in that
light, and it seemed they rode the surface of a vast, shimmering lake. The
buttes stood black and starlit in the night, suddenly mysterious as the piles
of some inconceivably gigantic temple, fallen down into ruins. The wind
increased, chilling the air, whistling eerily over the surfaces of the stone
columns.

           
Chazali brought them to the shelter
of a butte, a spring at its foot feeding a well carved with the insignia of the
Makusen clan. Grass grew denser there, sufficient that the horses might graze
on their picket lines, and wind-tortured trees provided fuel for fires. A guard
was mounted, and Ochen worked his magic to establish further defenses; soon
meat roasted and kettles bubbled as they settled for the night. Calandryll was
delighted, although little surprised, to find Bracht true to his word: Cennaire
was included in their conversation, as if the censorious silences of their approach
to Ahgra-te had never been. He spread his blanket next to hers, across the fire
from the Kern and Katya, feeling a small, traitorous regret that they were not
alone.

           
He had, however, little enough time
for that, as, immediately they had done eating, Ochen called him away, that he
might continue his occult tuition.

           
The wazir led him away from the
fires, past the watching sentries, to where starlight painted the wall of the
butte pale silver, easing himself gingerly to the ground. Calandryll recognized
the source of his discomfort and asked why he did not employ his magic to ease
his riding, or at least his soreness.

           
"Too easy," Ochen
returned, wincing as he sought a softer spot, "and perhaps
hazardous."

           
"How so, hazardous?"
Calandryll wondered.

           
Ochen bunched his robe beneath his
buttocks before replying. "Each gramarye registers within the occult
fundus," he explained. "Think of the aethyr as a pool, and every
cantrip as a stone—the greater the spell, the more noticeable the ripples.
Rhythamun knows by now you've a grasp of that talent he saw from the first; he
knows a mage rides with you. Perhaps he watches the aethyr, and I'd not yet
tell him where we are. Also, each gramarye requires an expenditure of strength,
and albeit such a spelling as you suggest would be but a tiny effort, still I'd
hold all my power close."

           
Calandryll nodded his understanding,
then frowned as he saw a contradiction. "But if Rhythamun might sense your
spelling," he asked, "how shall he miss the defenses you erect each night?"

           
"A good point," Ochen
commended. "It hangs, however, on a subtle difference—the gramaryes I
employ to defend our camps are general things: warding spells attuned to no
particular person/' He chuckled ruefully. "On the other hand, do I use my
talent to ease my poor, aching buttocks, then the gramarye must be of an
individual nature, attuned to me alone. That might, were our enemy observant,
reveal me to him."

           
Calandryll murmured understanding,
then asked: "But in Ahgra-te, when you rendered us invisible, was that not
a personal spell?"

           
"It was," Ochen agreed,
"but there I'd spoken first with the priest, who is also, of course,
himself a wazir, and together we established a protection."

           
Again Calandryll nodded, and again
found a question. "And now? When you tutor me, does that not reveal
us?"

           
"We work within the aegis of
the gramarye warding this whole camp," Ochen answered, "and for now
you do little more than memorize the cantrips, master the invocations and the
mental concepts. Such should be protection enough for the nonce. Later,
perhaps, there may be danger."

           
"As we come closer to Tharn's
limbo?" asked Calandryll.

           
"Aye. You felt him on the wind
today," the wazir said, "and you felt his reek come stronger. The
farther north we travel, the worse that will become, the greater the Mad God's
influence."

           
"What of the
wazir-narimasu?" Calandryll frowned, assembling his thoughts. "Shall
their influence not wax greater as we close on Anwar-teng?"

           
"That's true," said Ochen,
"but remember they strive to defend the hold against the rebels' siege.
And likely strive the harder to hold closed the gate they guard."

           
Each explanation seemed to raise a
fresh question: "Save Tharn wakes, how can that be?" Calandryll
demanded.

           
The wazir's robe rustled as he shrugged,
starlight glinting a moment off his painted nails. "I thought you
understood that the slumber of a god is not like that of men/' he said.
"Tharn rests in limbo, sleeping, aye
_;
but he dreams, too, and
feels the blood that flows on this mortal plane, the wars men fight, the dreams
they entertain of conquest. Such feed him and strengthen him, and even dreaming
he affects our affairs. Likely he probes the gate in Anwar-teng, or alerts
Rhythamun of its existence, and so, likely, the wazir-narimasu exert their
powers to hold that portal secure.

           
"Now, be that explanation
enough, do we continue your tutoring? Or have you further questions for a
saddle-weary sorcerer?"

           
"None more than what I've asked
before," Calandryll said, "concerning Cennaire."

           
Ochen sighed: Calandryll felt
suddenly uneasy.

           
"Your lessons first," the
wazir declared. "After, be we not both too weary, we shall speak of
Cennaire, and of her heart."

           
Something in his tone sent a shiver
of apprehension down Calandryll's spine.

           
NECROMANCY such as Anomius has employed,"
Ochen said when the lesson was done and Calandryll pressed him further on the
matter of Cennaire's heart, "is not practiced here— nor by any civilized
folk, for that matter—and consequently is not a thing with which I am overly
familiar. Nor would I be, save I'd aid Cennaire."

           
"You told me her heart might be
restored her," Calandryll protested, alarm edging his voice.

           
"It may be done." Ochen
raised defensive hands. "But . . ."

           
He paused, and Calandryll waited,
breath baited, his own, living, heart pounding nervously, for he heard in the
sorcerer's voice a hesitation that set his nerves to tingling, apprehension
growing. "But?" he prompted.

           
Ochen sighed, hands folding, lost in
the wide sleeves of his green robe. For a moment his gaze encompassed the
night, the stars, the sickle of the moon, then his eyes turned to Calandryll's
face, somber. "You deserve the truth, unalloyed," he said at last,
"and that HI give you. But first, a warning: the truth may not be what you
want to hear. No, wait," as Calandryll's mouth opened, his eyes narrowed.
"Hear me out, knowing that I speak holding insufficient knowledge, that I
speak of the worst that may be, and that—Horul and his kindred gods willing—the
worst may not come to pass. It may be that you and she gain your hearts'
desires."

           
Calandryll ducked his head,
indicating acceptance even as his lips pressed tight together. It seemed an icy
hand ran down his spine.

           
"So," Ochen went on,
low-voiced, "let us consider the situation. To restore Cennaire to
mortality requires that her heart be freed from Anomius's clutches. To achieve
that end, the pyxis must be brought from Nhur-jabal—and I'd wager Anomius has
set it round with powerful gramaryes. That alone should be hazardous, none here
knowing the citadel. But—does Cennaire describe that place in minute detail—it
might be accomplished."

           
He broke off, nodding as if
approving, or confirming, the statement: Calandryll felt his spirits soar. Then
fall again as Ochen continued, "But that may not be the way of it, may not
be a pattern in this design. I've told you before that it is not my talent to
scry the future, and also that it is my belief a design exists in all of this.
Perhaps Balatur, like his brother, dreams and sends you help; perhaps those
powers that govern even the Younger Gods take a hand. I cannot say, only that
it seems to me it was fated Cennaire should join you, and that she should
become your ally."

           
"Then," blurted
Calandryll, unable to hold silent any longer, "surely Balatur—the Younger
Gods— whatever power exists beyond them, must aid us in this?"

           
"Perhaps," said Ochen
slowly, "but think on this—were it fated that Cennaire become one with
your quest, then perhaps her revenancy is needful. Perhaps she must remain
revenant, is she to aid you."

           
"No!" Calandryll's voice
rose in denial, in frustration. "That cannot be!"

           
"What may and may not be is for
the gods, for destiny, to decide," the wazir replied, "not mortal
men. But heed me—I do not say it must be so, only that it may be. Perhaps you
shall have your wish."

           
"And perhaps not,"
muttered Calandryll, his voice grown bitter.

           
"And perhaps not," echoed
the sorcerer. "Be that so, would you turn from your purpose?"

           
Calandryll stared at him, disbelief
in his eyes, and shook his head. "No," he answered. "In Tezin-
dar I—we three—vowed to pursue this quest to its end. I'd not renege on that
undertaking, no matter what. But still I'd see Cennaire regain her heart."

           
"And if that's not to be?"
asked Ochen.

           
Calandryll turned his face from the
wazir to the sky, aware that tears threatened to course his cheeks, that he
ground his teeth in frustration, that his hands bunched in angry fists. Dera,
but it was hard! And, as Bracht was wont to remark, it seemed all dealings with
the occult resulted in the piling of riddle upon riddle. There seemed no clear
answers, only a shifting webwork of possibilities. He swallowed, forcing
himself to calm, his hands unclenching to wipe absently at his eyes, and strove
to hold his voice even as he replied, "Then it shall not be, and I must
accept that. It shall not alter my course."

           
"Were she mortal, you should be
dead ere now," Ochen remarked, seeking to offer what comfort was his to
give.

           
"A part of this design you
perceive/' Calandryll muttered.

           
"Likely," said the wazir,
"for it seems to me one thing piles upon another in ordered sequence—
Anomius sends Cennaire out ahunting, she his creature then. She encounters you
and finds her— forgive me?—heart is changed. Your company, your influence,
shifts her allegiance to such extent she is willing to sacrifice herself. She
becomes, sincerely, your ally. None of this should have come about were she not
revenant, and so it may be that she is destined to remain so."

           
"Surely only while this quest
lasts," Calandryll returned. "Do we succeed, then surely she's played
her part and the wazir-narimasu cannot refuse to return her heart."

           
He waited on Ochen's reply, but when
it came the sorcerer's voice was held carefully calm: "I've little doubt but
that they should make the attempt."

           
It was equivocal, and Calandryll
felt his mouth dry, presentiment mounting. Ochen's hesitation was unnerving and
he motioned for the old man to elaborate.

           
"You ask no easy thing,"
Ochen said slowly, thoughtfully. "To undo such magic, reverse those
gramaryes ... If any can, then the wazir-narimasu, in concert . . . Aye, they
might."

           
"Only
might
?" Harsh, that question, tinged with fear.

           
"I can promise no more."
Ochen sighed, ducked his head as if unwilling to meet Calandryll's fervent
eyes. "Such sortilege is dangerous—it might well leave Cennaire without
life of any kind, a heartless shell."

           
Calandryll said, "Dera!"
in a voice soft with dread. .

           
"This need not be. I cannot
answer for the wazir- narimasu. Perhaps it can be done successfully; but I know
it cannot be done without great risk." The wazir met his gaze now, a hand
emerging from the folds of his sleeve to gesture helplessly. "I warned you
I should speak plain."

           
"Aye." Calandryll laughed:
a single, bitter sound. "That you did."

           
"Better you should know it
now," said Ochen, "than when we reach Anwar-teng. I believe you'll
need all your senses alert then."

           
Calandryll ducked his head, silent
awhile, shoulders slumped, staring at the dark ground. Then he looked up, at
Ochen, and forced a smile, sad. "Aye," he admitted, the word a sigh.
"Best I be prepared for the worst."

           
"Should the worst not be that
Rhythamun succeeds?" the sorcerer asked mildly. "That Tharn be raised
and all these concerns count for nothing?"

           
"Aye." Calandryll's voice
was resolute, and very weary. "Now do we find our beds? Or would you tutor
me more?"

           
"We've done enough for one
night," Ochen returned him, "and Chazali will ride out come first
light. So ..."

           
He rose, groaning, a hand pressed to
his back, muttering vivid obscenities concerning horses and saddles and the
frailty of his aging flesh, so that Calandryll felt a reluctant smile stretch
his lips, which was likely Ochen's intent.

           
Save for the sentries, the camp
slept. Bracht and Katya lay a little way apart by the banked fire, Cennaire
across the smoldering timber. Calandryll stretched beside her, wondering if she
slept; wondering, too, if he should advise her of Ochen's dour warning. Did she
ask, he decided, thinking it were better they held no secrets from each other.

           
He saw her eyes, then, the fire's
glow reflected there, and her hand extended from beneath the blanket that
covered her. He took it, the touch of her skin, the pressure of her fingers, a
shock of excitement, desire. Low, she whispered, "What did he say?" .

           
Soft enough he should not disturb
their slumbering companions he told her, seeing her face grow grave, her grip
upon his hand tightening. "So be it," she murmured when he was done.
"I'd ask the gods grant the doing of it, but if that's not to be . .
."

           
"What I feel for you shall not
change," he told her.

           
"Nor shall my feelings. But
still I'd have back my heart," she returned, and laughed softly, her smile
bemused as she added, "I'd not thought to want that so. Not until I knew
you."

           
He brought her hand to his lips
then, kissing her fingers. Pulling back as the temptation to draw her close, to
fold his arms about her, became almost irresistible.
Dera,
he thought,
is this
what Bracht and Katya have felt each night
?
I'd not believed it could be so hard.

           
Aloud, he whispered, "Lady,
this is not easy."

           
"No," she answered,
"but still we made a vow."

           
"Aye," he groaned, the
sound loud enough Bracht stirred, eyes opening an instant, hand tightening on
the falchion's hilt, where it lay upon the Kern's chest. He rose on one elbow,
saw Calandryll, and grunted, closing his eyes.

           
"Sleep," urged Cennaire,
and Calandryll answered her, "Aye," softly now, and let her retrieve
her hand.

           
He composed himself with difficulty,
his mind filled with thoughts of Cennaire and all Ochen had said, the one
tumbling over the other so that he slipped unknowing into dreams of passion and
despair, restless under his blanket.

           
FIRST
light found him bleary-eyed and dry of mouth, grunting as he rose, the
blanket tangled from his oneiric musings. He kicked it away, yawning as he
surveyed the desolate landscape. The sun was not yet over the horizon, the sky
there opalescent, pale herald of the new day. Birds sang as he splashed his
face and set to drawing his dirk over the stubble that decorated his cheeks and
jaw. The kotu-zen moved with their customary silent efficiency, setting kettles
to boiling, preparing their horses for departure. Katya tended the questers'
fire, and Cennaire went to aid her, while Bracht gave his stallion its usual
morning attention. Calandryll smiled wearily at the two women and wandered
away, finding privacy along the lee of the butte. That need satisfied, he
returned to the fire, drinking the tea Cennaire offered him, accepting the
smoked meat and journey bread Katya had warmed over the flames.

           
The night's fast broken, they
saddled their mounts and kicked the fires dead, then rode out from the shelter
of the butte. Beyond the stubby prominence the wind blew hard from the north,
beating cold against faces, setting the horses' manes to tossing. Calandryll
sniffed the air, wondering if he caught the scent of impending snow. Certainly,
it seemed the farther north they traveled, the closer they came to winter: the
sky was now become a hard, cold blue, what clouds it carried long mares' tails
of pennanted cirrus, white against the cerulean heavens. The sun that climbed
above the eastern edge of the world shone fulgent, more silver than gold,
offering little warmth.