Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (48 page)

           
She closed her eyes, head tilting
back, the dry, creased skin of her throat stretching taut. For a while she was
still, then she began to rock gently, and to chant, little more than a murmur,
too low the words might be discerned. With Ochen's lessons to aid him,
Calandryll understood this was not sorcery but rather communication with the
inosculation of fate's skeins, the gijan imbued with that particular talent
that granted her knowledge of the intertwining network of her clients'
destinies. Such vision of the future was limited, both by the ability of the
spaewife and the complexity of the web she sought to observe. He waited,
nervous.

           
Kyama's droning chant ended
abruptly. Her head fell forward, chin to chest, then snapped back, upright, her
eyes still closed as she spoke, her voice no longer a rustle, but deeper,
louder.

           
"You four take a hazardous
road. Do you follow that path to its end you shall face dangers unimaginable .
. . Dangers worse than plain death, even for that one of you who owns no heart.
Powers move against you, to thwart you and destroy you. They'd have their
revenge of you, those powers. And they are mighty . . . Greater than any one of
you, though together, four, you are perhaps strong enough.

           
"I cannot see so far. Those
you'd defeat, those you oppose—who oppose you—cloud my vision. The strands run
out into darkness, but for a little way your purpose sheds light. You may
succeed—it is within your power. Or you may not—victory is within the power of
your enemies.

           
"They are several, your
enemies. One is close, the others distant. One may, unwitting, aid you, and be
that so, his wrath shall be great. Keep your wits about you, do you go where
likely you must. Strength, sword skill, shall not alone be enough, you shall
need also that power one of you commands, and that another holds. Trust—let
trust be the keystone of your union. Without trust you become nothing and shall
be defeated.

           
"No more do I see. It is too
dark, too complex. The strands entwine, a maze. I . . . No! Too late. There is
no more."

           
Kyama's head fell forward again, her
body limp. A thin streamer of spittle hung from between lips gone slack. Her
hands loosed their hold and she would have pitched facedown against the table
had Bracht not moved to halt her. She moaned softly, stirring, and Cennaire
brought a goblet to her mouth.

           
The gijan sipped, then swallowed
stronger, and murmured her thanks, straightening on the faldstool. She looked
from one to the next, her eyes again bright.

           
"Did you hear that which you
wished to hear?"

           
"That we are four,"
Calandryll said, looking at Cennaire, "aye."

           
He turned his gaze on Bracht, who
shrugged and found sufficient grace to smile shamefaced and say,

           
“You're owed an apology, Cennaire,
and that I offer."

           
"And I accept," she
answered. "Gratefully."

           
"But," the Kern added,
turning toward Kyama, "there's much I fail to comprehend. You spoke of
several enemies, and those I think we know— Rhythamun, Tharn himself,
Anomius—but which may unwitting aid us?"

           
The gijan shaped a gesture of
helplessness: "I cannot say. Only that do you use your wits you may
deceive one to your advantage."

           
"And the powers we
command?" asked Calandryll. "You spoke of two with power."

           
"There is power in you
all," she answered. "The power vested in you burned bright, and that
shall be both beacon and blade in your battle. But the other . . . that was
darker and I could not clearly see in which of your companions it lies."

           
Across the table Bracht exhaled
slowly and murmured under his breath, "Riddles."

           
Kyama laughed at that and said,
"This talent of mine is no precise thing, warrior. It is not like your
sword, to be drawn and used as you command, to strike where you'd put your cut.
I look into a shifting, tangled future, and what I see I tell you. But those
skeins I'd follow turn and twist and are not always easy to track. Were you
four simple folk looking to forecast your destinies, then I could give you
plain answers. But you are not; you go against a god, and you've such enemies
as can turn fate on its head. That makes my task the harder."

           
"But we are now four?"
Calandryll said. "And should trust one another."

           
"Do you forgo trust,"
Kyama replied firmly, "then you are not four, and only be you four may you
hope to achieve victory. That much I read clear."

           
Calandryll smiled and took
Cennaire's hand, openly now.

           
She offered him a smile in answer
and looked to the gijan. "You know me for a revenant, no?" It was
easier, now, to say it, though still she felt a pang of trepidation, fearing
the response should not be that she wished. "Shall I get back my heart?
Shall I become again what I was?"

           
The ancient spaewife paused a
moment, then reached out to pat Cennaire's left hand where it rested, clenched,
on the table, the gesture reminiscent of a grandmother comforting a nervous
daughter. "Already you are not what once you were, but something
better," she said. "I think perhaps the Younger Gods have touched
you, and taken from you your sins. But more than that I cannot tell you, for of
all the skeins I saw, yours was the most tangled. I am sorry, child, but
whether you shall win back your heart, or no, I cannot say."

           
She paused then, and Calandryll,
intent on all she said, thought perhaps she frowned—so furrowed was her face he
could not tell for sure. Then: "You've a part to play, though, and that of
great importance. Of that much I am certain, but I cannot tell you, precisely,
what or how."

           
"Do you tell us shall we be
together at the end?" he asked.

           
"The end?" Kyama spread
wide her hands. "There are too many ends, each one dependent on the steps
taken before." She glanced an instant at Ochen: "I thought you'd
schooled him better, old friend." Then to Calandryll again: "Do you
not understand? What we gijans scry is nothing fixed, but a changing pattern.
Had this warrior of Cuan na'For not elected to welcome this woman as a comrade,
your quest might well have failed, for she's vital to it. Did she elect to
remain safe here, as you once suggested, you'd have little hope of victory.
Should some rebel slay this warrior woman of Vanu, the future shifts.

           
"I do not tell you what must
be, but what may be. That is the nature of my art. And you four oppose such
enemies as make my task the harder— you go against a god, and gods, even
dreaming, own such power as can change the future. All well, then aye—you shall
be together at the end. And Cennaire shall have back her heart, and you shall
deliver the Arcanum to Vanu's holy men, who shall destroy it, and Vanu shall be
wed to Cuan na'For,
Kandahar
with Lysse, and all shall, as those who spin tales for our children
have it, live happy after.

           
"But I'd not deceive you and
tell you it shall be so, for I do not know. You've the chance, and I pray Horul
you succeed; but shall you win or lose, I cannot say with any certainty."

           
It was as Reba, in far off Secca,
had told him, and he ducked his head in acknowledgment, knowing he asked too
much, dared hope too high: the future was no straight road, but a branching
thing. But still he could not help but feel a measure of disappointment. He
squeezed Cennaire's hand, seeking to comfort her for what he thought must be a
blighting of her hopes, and was surprised to hear her say, "We can ask no
more. That we be truly now four is enough."

           
"Said well," Kyama
complimented. "And now I'd ask you excuse me, for I am wearied by this
scrying."

           
"Aye." Ochen stood.
"We've a long road ahead, and I suggest we all of us find our beds."

           
Did his eyes linger a moment,
amusement twinkling there, on Calandryll and Cennaire? Calandryll knew not,
only that the suggestion was greatly welcome: he sprang enthusiastically to his
feet. "Our thanks for what you've done." He bowed to Kyama, to Ochen,
offering Cennaire his hand as she rose.

           
IN
his chamber he shed his borrowed finery for the robe Kore had provided,
waiting as long as his racing heart allowed for Bracht and Katya to find their
beds, then slipped silent on bare feet from his room to the balcony. The
glassed doors of Cennaire's chamber stood ajar beneath closed drapes. He eased
through.

           
She lay beneath the sheets, her hair
loosed now, spread raven over the pillows. The cosmetics were gone from her
face, and she was smiling. He shed the robe and went toward her, thinking that
did his heart beat faster it must surely explode. She said, soft, "Do we
not speak of the future, and what may be, but only of now."

           
Calandryll answered,
"Aye," and went to her.

           
SNOW
met them a day out of Pamur-teng; not a full-blown storm, but clear enough
warning they rode headlong into winter. It came in flurries, gusted on the
fierce wind coming down from the north, from the Borrhun-maj, a wind strong
enough it should have driven off the cloud that hung low and grey across all
the sky, but did not. The overcast remained, sullen, foreshortening the
horizons, denying the pale sun passage through its drab barrier, the land below
gloomy for want of light. Between dawn and dusk the day remained somber,
depressing, as if the elements themselves contrived to Rhythamun's purpose.

           
Chazali set an urgent pace, eager to
join the army sent ahead from his home hold, marching now a little east of
north, on a line that would bring the warriors of the Makusen directly to
Anwar-teng. Bachan-teng lay due north, the bulk of its warriors, as best the
kiriwashen was informed, still within their hold, poised to march against
either the Makusen forces or those advancing out of Ozali-teng. He hoped, he
had told the questers as they made swift war council on the morning of their
departure, that the engagement of forces should occupy Bachan-teng sufficiently
they might slip by unopposed. How they should pass through the siege lines to
enter Anwar-teng, they chose to leave for later decision, when they might
better view the obstacles in their way.

           
That decision had come swift enough:
the alternative was to delay while the kotu-anj of the Makusen were examined in
hope of identifying Rhythamun in his Jesseryte form—did he remain in that
stolen body. It seemed as likely he should have taken another's shape, or gone
on alone; and that must mean granting him further advantage by the search.
Better, they had decided, to alert the sorcerers traveling with the army that
one among the kotu-anj was perhaps a warlock, and trust that were it so, the
wazirs should uncover him and halt him there. Better they should reach
Anwar-teng, consult with the wazir-narimasu, that the most powerful of all the
Jesseryte mages be able to lend what help was in their power.

           
"Can you not alert them to the
danger?" Bracht had asked. "Speak with them from here?"

           
And Ochen had shaken his head, his
wizened visage troubled, and said, "Were I able, I should have done that
ere now, my friend. But I cannot— Tharn waxes daily stronger, and those
misguided wazirs who lend their support to the rebels find their powers
increased. Between the Mad God and them, communication through the aethyr is
made impossible now. Anwar-teng stands alone in terms both physical and
occult."

           
"But not for long,"
Chazali had declared, his voice flat with barely suppressed anger, "for
the loyal tengs march, and soon enough shall fall on the insurgents, and the
Khan and the Mahzlen be freed."

           
Ochen had nodded at that, but said
nothing, and on his face Calandryll had thought to see doubt, as if the
sorcerer found it impossible to share the certitude of the kiriwashen. He had
found, however, no opportunity to discuss that doubt, for Chazali had shortly
announced their departure, impatient, albeit he was clearly loath to quit his
family so soon after arriving, to join the Makusen army, the sooner to restore
his homeland to order and balance.

           
They had found their horses then,
and ridden out of the kiriwashen's palatial home, an image blazened on
Calandryll's senses. The Lady Nyka stood with her children at the center of the
atrium, beside the fountain. The sun was not yet high, and the surrounding
walls cast gloomy shadow over the little group, for all their robes were brilliant.
Chazali had taken up his daughters, Taja and
Venda
hugging him, near to tears. Rawi had stood
manfully holding back his disappointment, bowing formally, then hurling himself
into his father's arms, declaring that should Chazali fall in battle he would
be avenged.

           
"Aye, of that I've no
doubt," Chazali had said, pride in his voice. "But for now you've a
duty here, and that important."

           
Then he had embraced his wife, and
stroked her cheek with a tenderness Calandryll had not before seen in him, and
donned his helm, swiftly locking the veil in place, as if he would hide tears.

           
He had mounted, barked a command,
and led his men out through the gates at a brisk trot. Calandryll had looked
back a moment, and seen Nyka and her children standing forlorn, watching: four
innocents caught up, like all the world it seemed, in the crazed machinations
of the Mad God and his insane acolyte. Calandryll had looked to Cennaire then,
seeing her lovely face set purposeful, and wondered if they should survive; and
pushed the thought away, seeking to fix his mind on thoughts of victory.

           
They had quit Pamur-teng to a
dinning chorus from the folk who lined the narrow streets, the shouting echoing
from the great gates until those closed behind them, ponderous, sealing off the
vast citadel. Chazali had driven hard heels against his horse's flanks then,
lifting the animal to a gallop that carried them swift across the valley to the
northern hills, not speaking or looking back, riding like a man who seeks to
leave memories behind him.

           
ON
the third day out of the hold the snow began to fall unceasing. The sky
assumed a livid hue, like diseased flesh, the wind easing a little, as if its
task were done, sufficient cloud piled across the heavens that it might rest
awhile. The flakes came drifting down careless at first, sizzling on the fires
as they broke their fast, then thicker as they rode out, blowing directly into
faces that stung with the cold, melting on the heated bodies of the horses,
limiting vision so that they progressed blindly into the pale opacity. Chazali
called no halt, neither slowed their pace, but continued on at a steady canter
even as the masking veils of the kotu-zen were painted with the flakes, and the
folds and edges of their jet armor, so that they resembled strange creatures,
all black and white.

           
At least the Jesseryn Plain was firm
enough to withstand the onslaught, Calandryll thinking that had they ridden the
gentler terrains of Lysse or Cuan na'For, the ground should soon be mired, the
snow transforming the land to a marshy consistency that would surely have
slowed their progress. As it was he began to wonder how long the storm should
last, how deep the snow might layer on the unyielding soil.

           
That night, as they built fires from
what little timber was available from the
hurst
that did its poor best to fend off the
wind, he asked Chazali how they should fare, did the snowfall continue
unabated.

           
"Poorly," was the
kiriwashen's curt answer. "For a few more days we may go on unhindered,
but does this Horul-damned snow keep up, it will begin to bank and slow
us."

           
"Shall it?" Calandryll
asked. "Keep up?"

           
Chazali had raised his veil, and
paused a moment to wipe his face, looking up at a sky gone too early black,
then grunted. "Likely," he said. "It's the look of a long fall.
And the feel of thaumaturgy— such a storm should not come so early in the
season."

           
He had excused himself then, pacing
off, soon hidden behind a curtain of white, to inspect the guards he set, and
Calandryll had gone to the warmth of the fire.

           
Bracht and Katya sat there, and
Cennaire, all huddled in cloaks, preparing tea and warm food. The tent found
them in Pamur-teng throbbed in the night wind. Calandryll took a place beside
the Kand woman, sharing the oiled canvas she had spread. He told them what
Chazali had said, and Bracht shrugged.

           
"Does it slow our progress,
then surely it must slow Rhythamun," he suggested.

           
"Save Rhythamun likely employs
sorcery to aid his progress," Calandryll returned.

           
"Is Rhythamun able to employ
magic to speed his progress," Cennaire suggested, "then might not
Ochen?"

           
Their faces turned to Calandryll,
acknowledging his larger understanding of such occult matters. He frowned,
uncertain, and said, "I am not sure. He tells me that the employment of
such gramaryes as benefit individual folk are like beacons in the aethyr, and
so might alert Rhythamun to our location."

           
"And enable him to attack you
on that plane?" Cennaire shuddered, snow falling from her cloak's hood as
she shook her head, alarm widening her eyes. "I'd not see that. Even must
we go slow."

           
Calandryll smiled at her concern,
for all he knew frustration at the prospect of delay. "I am but a novice
in such matters," he said. "Best we ask Ochen himself."

           
"Ask me what?"

           
The wazir came out of the snow,
wrapped in a fur-lined cloak his face like some small animal peering from the
burrow of the hood. He settled on a corner of the spread canvas, extending his
hands toward the fire, turning inquisitive eyes from one to the other.
Calandryll outlined the gist of their conversation.

           
"Calandryll speaks
aright," he said. "Do I speed our passage with cantrips, I risk
sending Rhythamun notice of our position. Save it becomes unavoidable, I'd not
chance that."

           
"And does it become
needful?" Calandryll asked. "Do we find our way blocked?"

           
Beneath the voluminous folds of his
cloak Ochen shrugged. "Then perhaps I must risk it," he said quietly.
"I'd sooner not, but should it prove the only way ..."

           
Cennaire voiced a small,
inarticulate sound of helpless negation. Calandryll smiled at her, turned to
Ochen. "Surely we must reach Anwar-teng as soon we may," he said.
"Is that not of paramount importance?"

           
Ochen nodded. "Aye—so long as
we may reach the hold intact." He laughed, the sound empty of humor.
"The choice would seem to be betwixt skillet and fire: we must reach
Anwar-teng swiftly, but without alerting Rhythamun, and perhaps it shall prove
impossible to do the one without the other. He's an advantage in that."'

           
"Ahrd!" Bracht exclaimed.
"Does everything favor him?"

           
"Here, now," Ochen said,
"Tharn favors him. The god would be freed, he senses his minion drawing
ever closer—he does all he can to aid Rhythamun."

           
"Did Chazali speak aright,
then?" asked Calandryll. "Is this storm of occult origin?"

           
"It's the dimensions of
wizardry," Ochen returned. "Cold winds, rain, those are the natural
characteristics of the season. This snow comes too early and too hard, as if
between one day's ending and the next's dawning we plunge into winter."

           
"And little we may do about
it," murmured Bracht sourly.

           
"Save press on," said
Calandryll.

           
"Aye." The Kern gave him a
brief, grim smile. "Save press on as we have always done."

           
They ate then, electing by common,
unspoken consent to leave the subject of Rhythamun, and talked instead of the
war, the battle plans of the loyal tengs.

           
It remained a conversation that
offered scant reassurance, for no matter how sound the strategy its execution
must surely lead to a great letting of blood—which should strengthen Tharn. And
did the god wax strong enough, and Rhythamun gain entry to his limbo, then all
was for naught. It came full circle back to Rhythamun: whatever the outcome of
the war, its prosecution must inevitably aid the Mad God.