Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (59 page)

           
^“
We
^’
ve the
Arcanum now, and our enemies slain. Do we flee this fell place, then, ere it
fall down and trap us here?
^”

           
Calandryll moved back from the
circle of Cennaire's arms, seeing the chamber no longer glorious, but dismal,
the sorry crypt of his earlier, brief vision, the resplendent sarcophagus only
a poor stone cist now. The cavern shuddered, dust and fragments of rock falling
from the gloomy roof, the cracks that striated the jagged floor widening by the
moment. He said, "Aye,
^”
and they ran toward the egress.

           
Outside, the bloody moat was become
a narrow stream that sprang from an outcrop of blue-grey granite. Clean water
ran there, and the brook was easily jumped, beyond it pristine grass, verdant
under a benign sun. They moved away, looking back as stone groaned, seeing the
cave's mouth collapse, sealed under an impassable weight of rock. Calandryll
thought he heard a shriek of rage, of disappointment, then, but it might only
have been the sound of falling stone. He turned his back to the tomb and took
Cennaire's hand, seeing Bracht and Katya walking arm in arm, the Kern reaching
out to take Cennaire's elbow, all of them smiling as they strode across the
lush grass.

           
"I trust," Bracht called,
"that you've a way to return us to Anwar-teng. Or perhaps direct to
Vanu."

           
"To Anwar-teng, I hope,"
Calandryll replied, "for we've a boon to claim of the
wazir-narimasu."

           
He felt Cennaire's grip tighten on
his hand and elation was tainted with doubt. The battle was won, Rhythamun
defeated and the world saved from the Mad God, but that should be a soured
victory could Cennaire not gain back her heart. He thought on that incertitude
he had heard in Zedu's voice, heard expressed clear in Ochen's words, and
wondered if there was yet a price to pay, disappointment waiting drear to
transform triumph to loss. He forced a smile: he could not allow the
uncertainty he felt expression on his face or in his voice. It must be possible
they return her heart! After all this, it must be possible!

           
"How shall you do it?"
asked Katya. "Have you such magic?"

           
He frowned then, and shook his head,
sudden alarm startling his heart. "I've not the least idea," he said,
wondering if they must remain here, prisoners of the aethyr.

           
Cennaire said, "Is that not a
gate?"

           
They looked to where she pointed:
proud from the grass, where none had stood before, rose a framework of roseate
stone, great upright megaliths surmounted by bulky lintel, within their aegis
not darkness, but a spectrum of colors, welcoming.

           
Calandryll said, "Aye, I
believe it is," and they walked toward the portal.

           
The worlds, no icy wastes or
hostile guardians, nor any pain: it seemed as though, Tharn's threat ended, the
aethyric passageways grew calm. They stepped together into the gate, there was
a moment of nullity, a brief sensation of timeless descent, and then they stood
inside the subterranean chamber, deep beneath Anwar-teng. The sigils decorating
the grey stone blazed an instant as if in farewell, and then faded, leaving
only bare rock behind, the scent of almonds dissipating as the gate closed
forever. They tottered, disorientated, clutching at one another for support.
The chamber was cool and lit with a soft golden glow from candles that burned
with an even flame, unmelting. They lit the startled face of Ochen, rising from
a faldstool, his slit- ted eyes opening wide, soon followed by a mouth that
stretched in a smile of welcome, his wrinkles creasing in joy.

           
"Praise Horul! Praise all the
Younger Gods! You return." He came toward them, arms flung wide as if he
would encompass them all in his embrace. "We feared you slain, the battle
lost. But then— Horul, it was a wonder! A sign you triumphed! No, wait,
doubtless you're wearied. Do I bring you to where you may tell your tale in
comfort? You'd take wine? Food? Horul, but I'd hear everything."

           
His words tumbled out, spilling one
over the other in his eagerness, his relief, even as his hands went from one to
the other, touching as if he would reassure himself living creatures came back.
Bracht asked, his voice carefully inquiring, "Did you doubt our return
then?"

           
Ochen laughed, the sound like
triumphant bells tolling victory, and answered, "For a while, aye. Horul,
my friends, you've been a while gone."

           
"How long?" asked
Calandryll as the wazir ushered them from the chamber, pausing only to lift the
warding spells. "Surely but a few days."

           
"Weeks, more like," said
Ochen as they climbed the narrow stairs. "We've taken turn and turn about,
waiting by the gate. Some gave you up— thought you dead, or trapped."

           
"But you spoke of a sign,"
Calandryll said.

           
"Aye—that the
battle
was won." The silvered head
turned back, twinkling eyes regarding them fondly. "That was clear enough,
but not that you survived it. Horul, the hours I've spent seeking sign that you
lived!"

           
"We do," Bracht-called,
his voice echoing cheerful off the walls, "but where we went there was no
wine. You spoke of wine?"

           
"That I did." Ochen's
laughter rang loud in answer. "And those who'd hear your tale. So, do I
curb my tongue ere you grow bored with the telling?"

           
"Save first you tell of this
sign," Calandryll asked.

           
"Aye." Ochen nodded,
solemn a moment. "Thus it was: the armies out of Pamur-teng and Ozali-
teng converged, poised to attack. The lines were drawn—there should have been
such bloodshed!— but then . . . Then it was as if the rebels woke from a dream,
as if the blindfold of Tharn's deceit was lifted. Their leaders sued for peace.
They pleaded for it! They threw themselves on our mercy, some fell on their
swords,* their wazirs declared themselves beguiled. Praise Horul—praise
you!—there were but few lives lost in skirmishes. They struck their camp and
e'en now march homeward. Then we knew you were victorious, that the Mad God was
defeated."

           
He paused as they emerged into a
courtyard. Overhead a pale sun hung in a steel-blue sky, not long risen. The
air was crisp, devoid of magic's scent or the chill of unnatural winter;
instead, autumn perfumed the clean air. Folk stared, leaving their tasks,
converging on the group as they strode across the yard, cheering as they
entered a building where more Jesserytes watched in awe.

           
"We knew that victory
won," Ochen continued as they climbed stairs, "but when you were not
then returned . . . Horul! Then I began to fear your victory pyrrhic. Weeks
passed ..."

           
"It seemed to us no more than a
little while," Calandryll murmured. "A day or two."

           
"That place you went turns on a
different clock, I think," the wazir replied. "Tell me . . . No! Wine
first, and all present to hear."

           
He brought them to that chamber
where they had first spoken with the wazir-narimasu, the central glass
admitting clean light now, some sorcerers already waiting, others hurrying in
as word spread through the citadel that the questers were come back safe.
Calandryll looked for Chazali, only to learn the kiriwashen had returned to
Pamur-teng, to which hold, Ochen assured him, word would be sent instantly.
Wine was brought, and food; the room grew crowded, abuzz with questions,
curiosity a palpable thing. Finally all were gathered and the doors closed.
Zedu took a place at the table's head, Ochen seated on his left hand, the
questers to his right.

           
Zedu said formally, "To Horul
and your own gods we give praise for your safe return. To you we give praise
for all you've done—the world stands in your debt."

           
Farther down the table someone
murmured, "The Younger Gods themselves stand in their debt," which
was answered with a murmur of agreement.

           
Zedu asked, "Do you then tell
your tale?"

           
Silence fell. Bracht swallowed meat
and motioned with a filled cup that Calandryll should act as spokesman. He
looked to Katya and Cennaire, who both nodded. He began to speak.

           
The telling was punctuated with
gasps, murmurs of approval, and awe. When he was done Zedu turned to Ochen:
"The gate is closed?"

           
"Sealed." Gravely Ochen
ducked his head. "None shall pass through that portal again. And once the
Arcanum is delivered to Vanu, none shall again find a way to Tharn."

           
"This was bravely done,"
said Zedu, "and for that journey you'd now make you shall have such an
escort as ..."

           
Calandryll interrupted the sorcerer.
"There's a boon owed ere we depart."

           
Zedu's gaze wavered at that. Beside
him, Ochen's smile froze, his expression troubled. The chamber was abruptly
still, as if the wazir-narimasu held their breath, unsure what might now
transpire. Calandryll held his eyes firm on Zedu's face.

           
"The matter of Cennaire's
heart."

           
It seemed to Calandryll the mage
sighed. He felt Cennaire's hand take his. Turning, he saw her lovely face
planed grim. He said, "Aye. The matter of its return."

           
Zedu nodded, motioning that Ochen
should speak on his behalf, on behalf of all the wazir- narimasu. There was a
pause that seemed to stretch out, timeless, and then Ochen faced them both with
solemn mien.

           
"You are fixed on this
course?"

           
Such doubt underpinned the question
Calandryll almost shook his head, almost said, "No. Save you be certain
she shall live, I'd not risk it." But it was not, he recognized, his
choice to make. That decision belonged to Cennaire.

           
She said, "Aye," with a
certainty absolute.

           
"It shall not be easy. It may
not be possible. Anomius no longer offers any threat. Might you not
reconsider?"

           
"I'd have back my heart and be
once more mortal."

           
Calandryll saw her eyes blaze,
determined, and in that moment, in that look, felt his love flare afresh,
heightened by the danger he heard in Ochen's voice, the courage in Cennaire's.
Dera,
he thought,
I cannot lose her now. That I could not bear.

           
"You've great powers as you
are."

           
"I'd give them up. I'd have
back my heart."

           
"It may not be within our power
to regain the pyxis, unseal the gramaryes Anomius set thereon."

           
"If not within yours, then
whose?"

           
"You've great faith in
us."

           
"Aye." Said simply.

           
Answered with: "Think you the
sorcerers of Nhur-jabal shall readily give up the box?"

           
"Think you they'll not? Think
you they'll leave me be, Anomius's creation?"

           
"Aye." Ochen smiled wanly.
"There's that to consider. But also your existence. We might obtain the
pyxis, safe. Bring it here . . . keep it here."

           
"No!" She did not shout,
but still her voice was thunder in the room. "What I am I'd be no longer.
What I am taints me—marks me as Anomius's creation! I'd be myself, entire,
owing nothing to any man, save what I choose to give."

           
This with a glance at Calandryll, a
brief smile that he answered with his own, proud for all the fear he felt.
Dera, but it was far easier to face Rhythamun than this subtle torture. This
was the confrontation they had set aside along the road to Anwar-teng. He
wondered—traitorous thought—if he should argue with her, and told himself
again,
No,
that this could not be his
decision, only hers.

           
He heard Ochen say, "We cannot
promise you success."

           
And Cennaire return, "Still I'd
ask you to attempt it."

           
"Even though it risk your
death?"

           
"That was risked not long ago.
And a boon was promised in return."

           
"Aye, it was, and we stand by
that promise. But even so ..."

           
"Even so, I'd have you do
it."

           
"So be it. Would you rest, and
we make the attempt on the morrow?"

           
She hesitated then, her eyes finding
Calandryll's, and he saw fear in the great brown orbs. Then she turned again to
Ochen and said, loud, "Best it be done now." And then, so soft none
others there could hear, "Ere I weaken and gainsay myself."

           
He held her hand tight as Ochen
ducked his head in solemn agreement, and whispered, "Would you not rest
first? Shall tomorrow not be soon enough?"

           
He wondered if that were said
selfishly. If he sought to spin out the sure time left them, to delay a little
longer the possibility he should lose her.

           
She answered him, "No, my love.
I'd do it now, for fear it be not done at all."

           
In that instant he thought her
courage far outweighed his own. He raised her hand to his lips and said,
"Then let's do it."

           
Neither noticed Ochen rise and come
toward them until his voice intruded. "Do you then think on
Nhur-jabal?" he asked. "Concentrate your mind on that chamber where
Anomius took your heart, that we may see where we must go."

           
Calandryll let go her hand as the
wazir came between them, his painted nails bright as they touched Cennaire's
cheeks, tilting back her head as he stared into her eyes. The scent of almonds
wafted pungent. Calandryll was dimly aware that all the wazir-narimasu
concentrated their gaze on Ochen,- that Katya touched his sleeve, reassuring;
that Bracht sat grim-faced, a fist about the falchion's hilt. Then Ochen loosed
his hold and stepped back, nodding to himself, turning to Zedu. "We've the
image of it," he said.