Dark Magic (7 page)

Calandryll’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword at that, his body shifting unconsciously to a fighting crouch. Then he froze, his mouth falling open so that he gaped at Bracht, amazement in his eyes, and something close to fear. He shuddered, straightening, hand snatching back from the sword’s hilt as though from the jaws of a serpent.

“By all the gods!” He heard the words come out hoarse, horrified by his actions. “I think you speak the truth. Forgive me, friend!”

He wiped a hand over his face, sweat beading there despite the chill that pervaded the cell, and folded his arms across his chest, licked at lips gone dry.

“I think Katya was right. Or Rhythamun leaves some foulness in his wake. Or these delays drive me down into madness.”

Bracht stood up, crossing the flags to set a hand on Calandryll’s shoulder. “You are forgiven,” he said lightly, and gestured at their confines. “Imprisonment
sits hard with me, too. And I’d no sooner linger here than you; all this serves to shorten tempers.”

“Even so.” Calandryll shook his head, looking into Bracht’s eyes.

“Even so,” the freesword said, “we shall not succumb. Does Tharn send magicks out of his dreaming, or Rhythamun lay gramaryes to thwart us, we shall resist them. We must!”

“Aye!” Calandryll nodded enthusiastically, all anger drained away. He felt very weary as he grasped Bracht’s hand. “And do I speak such madness again, you’ll bring me to my senses, no?”

“Aye, that I’ll do,” Bracht promised. “And you the same for me.”

He led Calandryll to the bench and saw him seated, an arm companionable about his shoulders. Calandryll muttered, “But you take it well. You chafe at imprisonment, I know; yet you hold your temper.”

Bracht glanced at the bare walls and grinned tightly. “I like this no better than you,” he agreed, “but I’ve learned the hunter must sometimes be patient. And . . .”

He paused; Calandryll looked at him, seeing doubt in the blue eyes, in the set of the wide mouth. “And?” he prompted.

“Anomius claimed to divine a power in you,” Bracht said slowly, choosing his words with obvious care, “the spaewife in Kharasul, too, and you wore Rhythamun’s stone for half a year. Mayhap that . . . opens you to occult blandishment.”

The words fell like cold water on Calandryll’s ears, awakening him to fresh fears. “I’ve no power,” he mumbled helplessly. “Were that so, I’d blast away that door and free us. But I cannot! That power they discerned came from the stone.”

“Mayhap,” Bracht said, “and mayhap the stone served to render you vulnerable to sendings.”

“Then I am a danger to our quest.” Calandryll felt moisture on his face, unsure whether it was sweat or tears. “A danger to you all.”

“No!” Bracht’s voice was earnest; his hand tight on Calandryll’s shoulder. “Remember what I’ve taught you of swordplay—that even the best have some weakness; but aware of it, compensate. This—if it be true!—is no different.”

Tekkan moved to his other side, his lilting voice measured: “And if it be true, then likely you still possess the power we’ve seen you use. Be that so, you’ve a formidable weapon at your beck.”

“Hardly at my beck.” Calandryll shook his head. “I say again—that power came from the stone.”

“Did you not tell me Rhythamun advised you the art of magic is hard-learned?” Bracht demanded. “Then mayhap you need to learn its usage. Just as you needed to learn swordskill.”

“Which benefits us little here,” Calandryll returned.

“But later,” the freesword said. “Quit of this place do we not go to Aldarin? To that palace Rhythamun used in Varent’s form? There was a library there, no? A chamber filled with books, you said. Well, likely we’ll find books there that deal with magic, and you may take them and read them and perhaps learn to use the art.”

“Think you we’ll have time enough, and I the talent?” Calandryll muttered doubtfully, then snorted bitter laughter. “And then I should be a mage, should I not? And you’ve no love of wizards.”

Bracht’s answering chuckle was genuine. “For you I’ll make an exception,” he declared. “Mayhap you’ll be the flame to fight Rhythamun’s fire. And against that one I’ll accept any allies.”

“We’ve yet to escape this impasse.” Calandryll was cheered by his comrades’ loyalty, but still stone walls stood firm barrier against optimism. “And Quindar ek’Nyle seemed in no hurry to free us.”

Bracht shrugged. “I’ll not believe our quest ends here,” he said stoutly. “We’ll be freed ere long.”

Tekkan nodded solemn agreement and said, “If Tharn does stir, then surely the Younger Gods must
sense it; if Rhythamun works his magicks to raise the Mad God, then his successors must sense that, too. And surely they’ll not bow readily to Tharn—mayhap they’ll aid us. Cleave to hope, Calandryll! We live yet, and living may still hope to succeed.”

Calandryll sighed, ducking his head in acceptance if not agreement. For all their reassurances it seemed to him hopeless optimism to think they should find godly aid. Using Varent’s body Rhythamun had succeeded in all his aims to date. He had obtained the chart that showed the way to Tezin-dar; had snatched the Arcanum; was even now likely on his way to the resting place that book revealed. And never had the gods intervened to halt the madman. Not Dera, goddess of his own homeland, or Burash, the god of Kandahar. Only Ahrd had taken a hand, and that no more than cryptic warning of deceit. To put their trust in the Younger Gods seemed vain to him: this seemed a thing of humankind, of him and Bracht and Katya, and none others.

Miserably he asked, “What shall Katya do while we languish here?”

“I told her to see to the warboat’s repairing,” Tekkan advised him. “To haul and caulk as swift she may. That and lay in those supplies we need to cross the Narrow Sea. Beyond that . . . well, does this mage prove us true and we’re set free, we sail for Lysse; if not, she’s to take the boat on alone.”

“Each augury we’ve heard has spoken of three,” Calandryll protested. “In Secca, Reba foretold two companions; in Kharasul, Ellhyn scried the same. The guardian in the Syfalheen village awaited three. How shall Katya succeed alone?”

“She’ll not,” said Bracht firmly. “I’ve little enough liking for magic, but I trust such scryings—three were prophesied and three there shall be. We shall be quit of this place ere long.”

His tone was positive and Calandryll forced a smile, even though he could not share the Kern’s optimism. A mood of black melancholy gripped him,
heightened by his unusual—and unexpected—display of temper, and he thought Bracht spoke to reassure, rather than from any real belief. It seemed to him their way was fraught with danger, obstacles strewn in their path to hinder and delay, as if fate itself, laughing at the gods, contrived to impede their progress. Time was of the essence and yet at every juncture speed was denied them. Perhaps Tharn did stir and somehow pluck the strings of destiny to hamper them. If that was so, what chance had they of success? And yet they must succeed, else the Mad God would rise and all the world come down in ruin. He shivered at the thought, the specter of despair looming ominous.

Then the clattering of his teeth became a grinding as anger rose anew, directed now not at his companions, but himself, and Rhythamun; at Tharn, too. If the god or the wizard worked to set this black mood on him he would deny them. He would not succumb! He would not concede them that victory! He clenched his jaw, his smile grim now, nodding to Bracht.

“Aye.” His voice was hard with anger. “We’ll quit this hole and sail for Aldarin. To the ends of the earth if need be.”

“Aye!” Bracht’s hand fastened tight on his shoulder, the pressure comforting. “No pompous Kand shall halt us. Nor wizards; nor any other thing, be it of man’s making or magicks.”

“Amen to that,” murmured Tekkan.

T
HEIR
resolution waned somewhat as the day progressed. Outside they heard the city come alive, but the single window was set too high to afford them any view save of the sky, wintry and grey, and the door was not opened until noon, when a single dish of spicy meat and vegetables was delivered to them. The soldier who set the bowl down was accompanied by three others, and beyond them, before the door closed
again, the prisoners saw more standing alert in the chamber outside. They ate and settled back on the bench as noonday passed into afternoon and then twilight dimmed the sky. Neither candles nor flambeaux were brought them and soon the cell was dark, the air grown chill again. They spoke, in increasingly desultory fashion, seeking to maintain their optimism, but for Calandryll each passing hour renewed his melancholy, until it began to seem that they should sit forgotten in Vishat’yi forever. He fought the mood, but it was inexorable as the mounting cold and he felt his spirit numb, hope fading. In time, with little else to do, they stretched out and slept as best they might, the stone hard and cold, inspiring miserable dreams.

Then sound and light intruded and they woke, Bracht and Calandryll reaching instinctively for their swords.

“I’d not advise that.”

The voice of Quindar ek’Nyle was aloof, his words emphasized by the pikes angled toward them, torchlight glinting on the blades. The vexillan stood slightly behind five of his men, wrapped in a cloak of fur-lined scarlet now, his expression calm. Straight-sword and falchion slid back into the scabbards and he smiled coldly.

“Come—Menelian shall examine you.”

Without further ado he turned and quit the cell. The soldiers parted warily, as if they anticipated attack. It felt to Calandryll that they were already tried and found guilty, and he struggled to find some measure of optimism as he rose and stretched, working knots from his stiffened muscles.

“Hurry.” The vexillan’s command rang impatiently from the outer chamber. “I’d not keep Menelian waiting. Nor, I’d think, would you—save you be afraid of facing him.”

“We’ve nothing to fear,” Calandryll declared, hoping that he spoke the truth. “Lead on.”

He walked out of the cell, the room beyond warm, braziers set about its perimeters, the scent of wine
mingling with the heady aroma of the narcotic tobacco favored by the Kands to render the air thick. Ek’Nyle waited by the main door, beckoning them out, a squad of six armed and armored men forming around them. A full moon westered toward the clifftops, setting the hour sometime past midnight, blanching the city, outlining the catapults along the heights like gibbets. In the harbor masts swayed gently and waves lapped softly. Calandryll saw the single stem of the Vanu warboat, but of its crew or Katya he saw no sign.

“This way.”

Ek’Nyle sounded irritated, irked by the disturbance of his night, and it occurred to Calandryll that the demands of the sorcerer Menelian must take preference over those of the vexillan. It was some small measure of consolation as they were herded away from the barbican into the darkened streets of Vishat’yi.

Soldiers stood alert by the barricade sealing the street that led inward from the mole, warned of their coming by the torches of their escort. They saluted as ek’Nyle approached, a way already cleared, closed behind the nocturnal visitors as they went on into the city. It was darker there, the buildings close, rising up the slopes like terraced cliffs, their windows shuttered so that no light shone out; nor were there such lanterns as brightened the avenues of Lysse’s cities, the brands held aloft by the two leading soldiers and the glow of the moon the only sources of illumination. They walked through pooling shadows, the drumming of their boots echoing off the night. It seemed to Calandryll like a threnody, the darkness matching his mood, so that he began to ponder the wisdom of his suggestion.

Pointless, he told himself as they climbed a rising avenue, it was done and they were committed. As he had said: sooner or later ek’Nyle would surely have brought them before the wizard, so sooner was the preferred option. Whatever the outcome they would, at very least, know more certainly where they stood,
and that must be better than the limbo of the cell. He fought his doubts, seeking a tranquillity that eluded him.

The avenue turned and they ascended a flight of wide steps, the city falling away below them, the harbor a pool of black and silver, harlequined by the moon. Then the steps devolved on a small plaza, surrounded by tall, narrow buildings, each walled, and ek’Nyle halted before a gate. He tugged a cord and an unseen bell chimed, the sound clean and clear as the moon’s light. The gate opened and the vexillan led his men through into a paved courtyard, the keeper a cloaked and hooded shadow that moved on silent feet across the stones to usher them inside the house.

They entered a vestibule lit by seven lanterns, their trapped flames giving off a faint resinous perfume. The floor was tiled in the manner of Kandahar with colorful mosaics, while the walls were starkly white. An effigy of Burash stood in a niche. The gatekeeper disappeared back into the courtyard, the door closing silently behind him as the inner portal swung open to reveal a thin-faced man whose robe of silver-decorated black defined him as the sorcerer. He was, Calandryll noticed with vague surprise, young, not yet close to his middle years, his cheeks clean-shaved and his hair pale for a Kand, more brown than black. His eyes were dark and confident as they surveyed his visitors, bright with intelligence and, Calandryll thought, amusement.

He studied them awhile, that delay visibly increasing ek’Nyle’s irritation, then nodded and said, “So these are the ones.”

“Who else?” the vexillan snapped. “Do you work your art on them and I’ll be gone.”

“Go now,” the mage returned, his voice careless. “I’d not keep you from your duties . . . Or your bed.”

Ek’Nyle frowned, disconcerted, momentarily unsure of himself, his poise threatened.

“And take your men,” the wizard added.

“What?” Confusion strangled ek’Nyle’s question.

“I am protected well enough.” Finely sculptured lips parted in a smile. “Or do you doubt my talents?”

“No, but . . .” The vexillan shook his head, confusion mounting, his discomfort widening the mage’s smile. “Is that wise?”

“I deem it so,” came the answer. “And doubtless you’ve tasks aplenty for your men.”