Devastating Hate (11 page)

Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Faïmon, Dsôn,

4371
^st
division of unendingness (5199
^th
solar cycle),

late summer.

Dsôn is as glorious as ever! Even in the pouring rain!
After his endless ride and the protracted sojourn in the groundling caves, the dark heart of his homeland appeared more stately and impressive than ever. This was where he truly belonged; there was no denying it.

In spite of his promise to Caphalor, it went against the grain not to announce himself as the nostàroi and receive the appropriate praise and acclaim—especially as he would not have to share the triumph with Caphalor.
But it can wait for now.
Sinthoras had to smile when he pictured the faces of the guards who had let him pass. They had been nearly prostrate with respect and admiration. He had found this very gratifying. They swore they would keep his presence in Dsôn Faïmon secret. He didn't doubt they would; they had been proud to be taken into his confidence. It was enough, for now.
I'll send them over a few bottles of good wine.

Sinthoras rode along the main street that led from the north to the Inextinguishables' tower.
Shouldn't I at least go and pay them a visit?

After a moment's thought he decided to go straight to Timanris to surprise her. He was so keen to see her and take her in his arms once more.
By all the gods of infamy! How distraught I was at the news of her death!

The power of love had revealed itself to Sinthoras after the many divisions of unendingness he had mocked and denied it. Before falling for Timanris, he had only entered into socially advantageous relationships. He had been astounded to find his soul could blaze with fire for an älf-woman with no social status, but she had won his heart without any discernible effort on her part.

He passed huge buildings with pillars of black and gray basalt, and approached the marketplace, where only a few stalls had been set up: the bad weather was keeping most of the inhabitants indoors, so it was difficult for the traders and merchants to do much business.

I need a present for her.
He had some gems in his pocket taken from the groundling treasure chests, but he was not sure this kind of jewelry would appeal to her artistic nature. The gold the mountain maggots
produced had a certain value, but that stemmed from the substance itself, not the handiwork. Sinthoras was eager not to offend his beloved.

As he looked around, his attention was caught by a new statue. Sinthoras wondered why there were two armed guards by the plinth. Their shields bore the insignia of the Polòtain family.

Has somebody died?
Sinthoras rode over to the statue and realized who it portrayed.
Robonor?

The face carved in onyx marble bore unmistakable signs of pain and accusation. The outstretched arm pointed to Sinthoras's house, and the wound on the leg, glowing red, was visible from far off.

But that's . . .

“Hey, you two!” The hood Sinthoras wore concealed his face and the guards looked up at him with bad-tempered expressions. “Who put this statue up?”

“Take a look at my shield, if you want to know that,” came the gruff answer. The bad weather must have gotten to the soldier.

“So it was Polòtain himself?”

The watchman nodded.

“And no one stopped him?” Sinthoras could feel his fury growing: a burning wave sweeping through his body and jagged lines forming on his face.
How dare he place a damnable lie like that in the middle of the marketplace?
He rounded the artistically perfect statue. Its significance was appalling. “How long has that been here?”

“Since the end of early summer.” The guard looked at him more closely. “Don't try to touch it. Do you hear? We're here to make sure you don't.”

He assumes I'm going to do something about this hideous defamation!
Sinthoras felt the urge to overturn the statue and have his night-mare crush it with its hooves.
What other lies has he spread while I was away on campaign?
A block of ice formed in his stomach, caused by anger and fear.

“I certainly won't be touching it.” Sinthoras turned his night-mare and ordered it to shit on the statue. The shouts of the guards had no effect and Sinthoras rode off.

The wind brushed his hood from his head, the cold rain cooling his face.
Think hard! What can you do about it?

Sinthoras felt destiny had brought him back to Dsôn. It was fitting that no one knew he was there. He had an advantage over Polòtain's family in that respect.

Why did he . . . ah! He is Robonor's great-uncle
. Directly after the guardsman's death there had been rumors that Sinthoras had arranged the accident in order to get Timanris's betrothed out of the picture. Caphalor had warned him of them at the time: everyone knew what he and Timanris had been up to before Robonor had been killed. High society in Dsôn had been enjoying the gossip, but had fallen silent after his promotion to nostàroi.

I got back here in the nick of time to force their lies back down their throats!
He pulled his hood back up, determined now not be recognized.

As he made his way to Timanris, the humiliation and shame got to him and he racked his brain as to what he should do next.
If anyone knows the scandal surrounding my name, it'll be Timanris.
He trusted her not to tell anyone else that he was here in the capital.

He reached her house. The door was opened by a slave.

Sinthoras pretended he had been sent to deliver a personal message to Timanris. He was told to wait in the corridor near the pantry until she appeared.

Although his face was in shadow, his intended life-partner recognized him at once. “You?” She stopped short two paces away. This was not the cry of joy he had expected.

What effect have these poisonous rumors had on her?
Sinthoras felt sick as a storm raged in his insides, leaving him cold as ice. “I . . . had to see you. I was given false news of your death . . .” The words tumbled out and he stepped up to her, sweeping his wet mantle from his shoulders to fall to the ground, revealing his light armor and weapons belt. “I have not been home yet. Nobody must know that I am here: I should not have left the troops—but I needed to see you and to take you in my arms.” He reached out for her.

Timanris stiffened, her beautiful face a closed mask. “Did you come because of me or because of what they are saying about you here in Dsôn?” she asked with a quavering voice.

“I have no idea what people are saying!” he insisted. “I've just seen the statue Polòtain has put up. Is that what you mean?”

The älf-woman lowered her head, a strand of hair falling across her features. “You have no idea what it has been like for me while you've been away,” she muttered resentfully. “Everybody's talking about us, even if they won't say anything to my face. They say you had Robonor murdered.” She stared at him intently, her eyes narrowing. “Do you remember my asking you whether you had anything to do with the accident?”

Sinthoras nodded quickly. “Yes, and I told you that I had nothing—”

“I know. You vowed you were innocent. But how can Polòtain be telling anyone with an ear to listen that he has a witness statement incriminating you?” She brushed his hands away. “I'm giving you the opportunity here and now to renew the oath you swore or to confess to having lied, Sinthoras.”

He felt weak and hurt. The quiet realization crept into the rational side of his brain that it was love that had dragged him into this mess. “I swear by my life, by the Inextinguishables, by my ancestors and by anything else you like: I had nothing to do with Robonor's death!”

“And that you never ordered anyone to injure him, or ever expressed it as a request?”

“I swear it, Timanris.”

At that she stepped into his arms and embraced him wordlessly.

However, his reaction was different from usual: it was not the warm response he usually felt when she touched him.

Sinthoras stroked her slender neck. “What else is wrong? I can see there is something else . . .”

Timanris took him by the hand and led him to her chambers. Two slave girls were sent to bring tea. Sinthoras and Timanris sat down at the window, looking at the splendor of Dsôn.

He would have liked to kiss her, but did not have the courage to do so. As long as there was a shadow over their meeting he did not feel secure enough in their relationship. He took her hand and waited to hear what she had to say.

Timanris looked at him questioningly. Hidden behind the consternation and doubt in her eyes, he recognized the tenderness she still
obviously felt for him, but he realized he was on the point of losing her completely.

“I fell down the stairs, I am told,” she began. “I must have grabbed hold of a spear from the wall . . . I ended up very badly injured. The healers were hard-pressed to keep me in the sphere of unendingness.” She waited until the slaves had served the tea. “I had memory problems. I could remember nothing about the accident, or about the period immediately preceding it.”

Sinthoras was on glowing coals.
What is she trying to tell me
? “I am so grateful to the gods of infamy that—”

Timanris raised her left hand slightly. “I have not finished. Everyone thought it was an accident, and so did I—until Raleeha ran away. She had left a letter for me, saying she had acted on your instructions!”

His heart stood still. “No!” he gasped. “You . . . how can you believe . . . ?” He did not know what to say. “You are everything to me! I never—”

“She wrote that you had promised to apprentice her to the best artists in the land if she did it,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “She said you had told her you no longer loved me and wanted to enter into another arrangement. A relationship that could further your career and help you in politics.” Timanris shut her eyes and reached for her marble bowl of tea. “I would not believe the words of a slave girl, Sinthoras . . .” Her voice broke. “But together with the rumors here in Dsôn, and then with Polòtain's accusation, well, it nearly . . .” She fell silent, but opened her eyes and regarded him.

Sinthoras felt his mouth go dry. There was a metallic taste on his tongue as if he had swallowed blood. He had to take a mouthful of tea before answering. “I took Raleeha's eyesight because she was careless. She must have wanted revenge for that,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, hoping that Timanris would comprehend. “It was her that brought me the false news of your death! She had forged your handwriting—”

“Raleeha was blind! How could she forge my writing?”

“By the gods of infamy, I have no idea! Maybe she had help. Maybe from my enemies, from Polòtain and his friends, to weaken my position.”
Sinthoras cupped her face in his hands. “Can't you understand? She wanted me to stay in Tark Draan! My grief at your death would have kept me away from Dsôn forever. She wanted to destroy me, far from home, so that she could go about ruining my reputation at home.” Sinthoras thought this was an appropriate explanation.
That's it! That makes sense!
“They gave you Raleeha's letter so you would lose faith in me and never try to find me.” He stroked her fragrant hair. “They want to tear us apart. They want to rob me of the love and support of the one I carry deep in my soul.”

“Their plan so nearly worked,” whispered Timanris, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Forgive me for doubting you. I should have listened to my heart, because it always took your side.” She pulled him to her. “I swear I shall never doubt you again.”

Relief flooded through him and his fears were suddenly as nothing. Warmth spread, invading every last corner of his body. Overjoyed, he pressed her to him. “We shall win. We shall defeat Polòtain with his own weapons!”

“Yes, we will,” She gave him a long and passionate kiss on the lips. “We'll start tomorrow morning. But this night belongs to you and me.”

Sinthoras surrendered to her caresses.

But as he did so, a voice inside whispered that he was a deceitful fraud.

Tark Draan (Girdlegard), far to the southwest of the Gray Mountains,

4371
^st
division of unendingness (5199
^th
solar cycle)

early autumn.

A rain-laden wind was whistling through the gaps around the shutters, making the nervous apprentices doubly anxious. But nobody did anything; the student magi remained at their desks, scribbling away by candlelight, their young faces tense.

Jujulo the Jolly sighed, wondering if he was the only one who could hear the wind howling outside. He got up from his comfortable armchair on the dais.

Twenty of his best students were puzzling over the tasks he had set them. Any who failed the test would be making their way home tomorrow and would revert to being the offspring of some noble lord, or a merchant's son, or a farm boy, or a young laborer—with one thing in common: they would have missed the unique chance of one day taking up a position as magus.

Jujulo the Jolly was well named—he was never moody or bad-tempered, and did not like it when others brought their foul moods into his school and home: an old, stately building on a hilltop surrounded by a town called Duckingham. His multi-colored kaftan and curly-toed shoes also complemented his personality and completed the eccentric picture he projected; anyone would be forgiven for thinking him a fairground attendant or a court jester. He was already over eighty sun-cycles old, but looked much younger, so that anyone meeting him for the first time might have said he was fifty.

Jujulo walked over to the windows and fastened them shut.
A magus must never get distracted, otherwise he can't concentrate, and if he can't concentrate, his spells won't work
.

He stood with his back to the exam room listening to the quill pens scratching away, satisfied that they were all concentrating hard.
Yes, they are writing as quickly as they can. They are good boys.

Jujulo returned to his chair and made himself comfortable, sipping his tea and nibbling the odd biscuit the cook had baked for him: nice and spicy, just the way he liked them.
I wonder if they will do better than the girls?

The magus taught the girls and boys separately. He always found that a male apprentice would learn better with other boys, and a female apprentice did better if instructed in a group of girls—there were fewer distractions.

He could still hear the wind howling.
A north wind, of course.

His thoughts strayed to the Gray Mountains: those majestic peaks that were home to the fifthlings. The dwarves knew their way about the mountains like nobody else. He had twice taken up their invitation to visit and had admired the stone friezes in the halls, their forges and workshops, ingenious irrigation systems, and of course, the fortifications at the Stone Gateway.

However polite the dwarves had been, he could not avoid the feeling that they did not have a very high opinion of humans, or magi for that matter—dwarves did not hold with magic. However, if that was the case, they thought even less of elves. But for some reason the dwarf king liked him and a real friendship was developing through their correspondence.

Jujulo used to think that the dwarves were a little slow, but he had soon realized that this was due to their native stubbornness: they were quite prepared to listen to others' views, but they would always stick to their own opinion, and this somewhat hampered discussion. Now, something else was worrying him: he had been waiting for a response from the dwarf king since the summer, when Jujolo had invited him to visit the magic realm of Jujulonia, together with his retinue; he had expected to hear back immediately.

But there had been no answer.

And the messenger he had sent was missing: his famula Famenia. She was the best student in her cohort and it was not just the invitation she had been entrusted with. Jujulo had instructed her to entertain the dwarves with some indoor magic to whet their appetites.

The magus sipped his tea noisily.
I wonder what's afoot in the dwarf realm?
Had the fifthlings perhaps forced their king to abdicate? Was there a dispute between the various clans? Or were the odd creatures fed up with his magicking? Or perhaps an accident had occurred—a flood maybe, or some gas seeping into their mines and tunnels?

He spotted one of the young students trying to copy from his neighbor. “Watch it, Törden! This is your last warning, boys. If anyone else tries to cheat, you are out on your ear!”

Törden went red and doodled on his paper.

Jujulo had to stop himself from breaking into a grin.
As if I would not have tried the same trick.
He thought back to when he had studied under the magus Erinitor the Unrestrained. His master had thrown an inkpot straight at his head upon seeing him attempt to cheat. He still had the dark blue mark where the bottle had broken the skin.
The fact I tried to cheat didn't stop me being chosen as Erinitor's successor though, did it?

He had finished his mug of tea and the pot was empty. He took another biscuit and made a swift gesture with his right hand.

A shimmering teacup appeared and shot off through the closed door: a simple message spell to get the cook to bring what he wanted. Easy as pie.

The famuli, he noted, were not letting themselves be distracted. He supposed his little tricks were perfectly normal to them now; they had all been at the school for so long.

Voices were heard out in the corridor and the door burst open. Jujulo recognized the soaking wet figure on the threshold as Quartan, the cooper. He was bleeding badly from a cut on the top of his arm. “Master Jujulo!” he called with horror in his voice. “Come quickly! You must—It's the elves! They are attacking us!”

The apprentices all looked up and started whispering to each other, regardless of Jujulo's reproving glance.

The elves?
The magus got up out of his chair. “That can't be true! We're so far away from the nearest elf realm . . . why would they attack us?” He looked at Quartan. “Are you sure?”

“I saw it with my own eyes!” The cooper gripped his injured shoulder. “One came out of the shadows as if he had been spat out of the dark. He stormed into the middle of our guilds meeting in the council chamber. I'm the only one to escape, because I—” He sobbed. “Master, please! Do something!”

“Indeed I shall!” Jujulo rushed past the wounded man and stormed out of the hall.

“Magus, what about the examination?” Törden called after him.

“You have all passed. Stay where you are, all of you,” he instructed as he hurried out, grabbing his raincoat from its hook.

Quartan soon caught up with him. “I can't let you face them alone, master.”

“It won't be elves, my friend. That's for certain.”

“But the ears are all pointed and they—”

“I'm sure that's what you saw. It'll be a gang of robbers disguised as elves,” Jujulo said as he ran. “They want to frighten you so that nobody puts up any defense.”
There can't be any other explanation. There's nothing here in Duckingham the people of light could possibly want.

The dwarf king's warning came to mind; he had always insisted the elves were treacherous. “Beware of the elves! Trust them and you'll live to regret it.” Jujulo could almost hear his friend's growly voice. “They only act in their own interest—they think they are so much better than everyone else. It's us dwarves that protect Girdlegard. Yes, we even offer the pointy-ears our protection, although they deceive us. The long'uns forget so quickly who they owe their prosperity to, calling us mountain maggots, nothing but treasure-hoarders, bad-tempered little blacksmiths only good to trade with. But if we didn't keep the Stone Gateway safe, the whole of Girdlegard would be awash with evil.”

The words resounded in Jujulo's head as they came to the first houses, but the town looked peaceful enough. There was no sign of any invasion.

It's so quiet.
Jujulo slowed down and gathered his thoughts in order to be ready with a spell if it should prove necessary. The ground at his feet was charged with a magic force, so he was not worried about confronting an enemy. There wasn't much that could go wrong.

“What is wrong? Where are the guards?”

He heard footsteps receding.

Jujulo turned to Quartan and saw that the man was making himself scarce. “What is happening?”

“Forgive me, master. He made me do it! Otherwise . . . Forgive me!” the cooper stammered, before he turned and ran.

“Who? Otherwise what?” Jujulo shouted after him while preparing a defense spell. He had been lured into a trap—the elves had not attacked at all.
But who could be after me?

He heard a dark laugh from the shadows.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he was filled with fear that grabbed at his heart with a cold hand; it started to beat frenetically and his chest was suffused with pain.
What is happening to our town?

“You have all that power and yet you dress like a fool,” an eerie voice mocked in a half whisper. “You could rule over the whole of Tark Draan! Take a look at yourself. Aren't you ashamed to be seen like that?”

Jujulo turned around full circle but could not see anyone. “Who are you?”

“The moment you catch sight of me you will be dead,” murmured the cruel voice. “Pray to your gods that you never see me.”

The magus intoned a swift incantation. A glowing sphere the size of a closed fist appeared on the palm of his hand. It flew into the dark corners to cast its light.

“So, you think you can find me?” he heard the unknown stranger say. “Look what I can do with your pretty little light!”

Skinny fingers of darkness emerged and moved toward the glowing sphere like smoke, swallowing up every scrap of light.

Is this some rival magus?
Jujulo felt that his light-spell was still working, but that the inky blackness had enveloped it, holding it captive.
Does he want to seize my enchanted land? I had no idea. Or . . . could it be a student with a grudge against me?
“What do you want from me?”

A figure stepped silently out of the darkness; the blackness was reluctant to let it go.

Jujulo saw a tall warrior in a metal breastplate with leg greaves and forearm guards in the same material. His clothing was dark, as was his hair, which was held back with a band. Thin black chains encircled his upper arms and a line of long polished rivets ran from the cuirass back over the shoulders. The handles of two swords were visible behind him; his pointed ears were immediately obvious.

So it is an elf, after all.
Jujulo's hands were trembling and he tried desperately to remember a suitable attack spell, but nothing would come. Fear was numbing his mind.

The elf stood still and spread his arms, displaying black gauntlets on his hands. “I wish you good evening, Magus Jujulo. As you see, I have
not drawn my weapon. I am here to lay claim, in the name of the elves, to your realm. We understand magic, unlike you barbarians. You have abused the forces of enchantment for far too long. It is time to surrender to those who deserve them!”

Jujulo could not believe what he was hearing. And the elf's dialect was atrocious. In all his long life he had only ever met one elf who had come from the Golden Plain and his speech had been most refined and elegant.
This one doesn't sound like a sophisticated elf at all. It's as if he has learned the language of humans from someone with no breeding or education.

The streets of Duckingham remained silent. The inhabitants must have realized it was better not to leave their houses that night.

“I assume you want all of the enchanted lands? Or did you pick mine because you think I look like a clown?” Jujulo took a closer look at his adversary. The runes on the armor meant nothing to him. This elf was unlike any he had ever come across in Girdlegard. “Which elf realm are you from?”

“Âlandur.”

“That's over 400 miles away. You think you can just march straight through Thapiaïn and take over? What about the other kingdoms? What will their rulers say about their new neighbors who don't look so keen on peaceful relations?”
The dwarves were right; the elves are not to be trusted.
Jujulo wondered how he could overpower this envoy. He had to get warnings to the other magi, and all the monarchs, as well.
Those brave dwarves have been protecting us from those on the other side of the mountains, only for us to find insidious treachery within Girdlegard!

“Staking a claim is a simple procedure when all possible objectors have been removed,” the elf said, smiling coldly. “But what good is an enchanted land without its magus and his famuli?”

“Are you
threatening
me?” Jujulo called up a gust of wind to hurl the elf backward against the wall, smashing every bone in his body.
You think I'm a clown, do you?

The squall threw up a cloud of dust, but the enemy was nowhere to be seen.

“I'm not
threatening
you,” the elf murmured into Jujulo's ear. “I'm
killing
you!”