Land of the Burning Sands (20 page)

Memory rose through Gereint like mist. His breath caught. He shut his eyes and pressed a hand across his face, at once terrified and violently furious. All the horror of the previous days flooded through him, utterly unexpected. He thought he might shout; he thought he might weep. He held perfectly still, pressing his hands across his eyes, and waited, shaking, for the storm to pass.

It did pass, eventually. The room was quiet except for the songs of the birds. He might have been the only one awake in all the house, in all the court entire, except for the birds.

The shaking eased at last. Gereint took hold of the bedpost and got to his feet. He was naked. But if the king’s mage had done anything to him while he was unconscious, he could not tell it. He felt normal. Except for that odd lightness, so that he wondered whether, if he leaped down from the window of this room, he might float down to the gardens below as gently as a down feather from his pillow. This was not an unpleasant feeling. But it was unusual and uncomfortable because he almost thought he should recognize the feeling, only he did not.

There was a jug of water, a wide brass basin, and a small pile of folded clothing on a table next to the bed. The room was not large. It contained little save for the bed and the table and a small writing desk. There was paper on the desk and a quill and a bottle of ink. The ink was sapphire blue.

Gereint poured water into the basin and washed his face. He put on the clothing. It was not blue and white nor any other livery, but plain brown and tan. But the material was good, and the clothing fit.

There were no boots, but house sandals sat under the table. Gereint picked them up and sat down at the desk to put them on. And stopped. He sat still for a long time, staring down.

The silver
geas
rings were gone. Not merely the little chains Beguchren Teshrichten had threaded through them: the rings themselves. Gone entirely. Nothing but small scarred holes interrupted the smooth skin between tendon and bone. When Gereint tentatively reached down to touch his ankles where the rings had been, he felt the holes. But the rings themselves were
gone
.

Gereint had felt only joy and gratitude when Eben Amnachudran had removed the brand from his face. He did not know what he felt now.

There were servants outside the blue room: a broom-wielding woman in servant’s drab brown and, more to the point, a man in livery waiting outside the door. The man, who addressed Gereint as “honored sir,” guided him through halls and up stairs and along a pillared gallery open to the weather, and at last through an intricately carved portico into an antechamber hung with blue and violet and decorated with mosaics of birds and trees. All of this was clearly part of the palace; all of it was clearly designed to impress and overwhelm.

It made Gereint angry—he was ready to be angry, he found. To be
furious
. Everything in this place was meant to manipulate, to make a man feel small and subservient—and that meant everything was of a piece, because everything here had been a manipulation, right from the beginning—and for what unguessable purpose? Beguchren Teshrichten needed Gereint, clearly. And had deliberately put him through all that farce of bait and threat, and for what? For what?

The liveried man gestured respectfully that Gereint should wait in the antechamber and himself went through a curtained doorway. Gereint did not wait, but followed on his heels.

“My lord—” the man was saying to the frost-haired mage.

The mage himself was sitting on the edge of an enormous desk, looking rather like a child who had made himself at home in his father’s study. A man sized to fit the desk was lounging in a chair to one side of the room, but Gereint barely looked at him. He had no attention to spare for anyone but the mage.

Beguchren Teshrichten had been running the long feather of a quill pen absently through his fingers. He did not seem to be paying very much attention to the liveried man, but he looked up sharply when Gereint came in, waved the man silent, and hopped down off the desk to face Gereint. He was not smiling, but his calm seriousness was just as inscrutable as his smile. He said to the man, in a tone of polite dismissal, “Thank you, Terechen,” and the man darted an unsettled look at Gereint and went away.

Gereint had just enough self-command to wait for the liveried man to leave. Then he took two steps forward and said through his teeth, “The man who took away the scar of the brand did it for kindness. And why did you do
this
?” He gestured sharply downward. “Not for kindness, is it? What is this but payment for service—and for
what
service? What was that game with the threats and the iron? What do you
want
from me?—Not that it matters: if you think I’m interested in playing your game, you’re badly mistaken,
my lord
.”

The mage did not answer, but impassively looked aside from Gereint’s angry stare, laying the feather quill carefully down on the desk.

The other man, however, stood up and set his fists on his hips. “What?” he demanded. He was not quite as tall as Gereint, but broader all through, and his voice matched his big frame: deep and guttural. That deep voice was especially harsh now, with annoyance and also with an odd kind of disdain. “You object to payment, do you?” he went on, glowering at Gereint. “What, do you find the payment is not sufficient? Is it base coin? What service would you have refused for this coin? Would you wish to specify? Well?”

Taken aback by this unexpected rebuke, Gereint stared at the big man. He had assumed Beguchren Teshrichten was master in this place; now he did not know. This man was heavyset and powerful, but his air of authority went beyond his size. He looked like a soldier: black hair cropped short on his head, thick beard close-trimmed to outline an aggressive jaw. His features were strong, even heavy, but his eyes snapped with energy and outrage.

It was the outrage that finally prompted Gereint’s belated recognition: There was authority in that guttural voice, but the anger was also clearly the ire of an offended friend. Beguchren Teshrichten, as everyone knew, was the
king’s
mage. This… this was the king. Brechen Glansent Arobern.
The
Arobern, himself. As soon as the possibility occurred to Gereint, he was sure it was true.

“Well?” repeated the king, still scowling.

Gereint, appalled, took a breath and tried to think what response he could make.

“Forgive him, my king: He is justifiably both angry and frightened,” Beguchren Teshrichten cut in. His light voice was as smooth and unreadable as ever. “Under the circumstances, I would be amazed at equanimity. If I’m not offended, why should you be?” The mage came a step toward Gereint and added to him, “My actions were unpardonable, but may I ask you nevertheless to pardon them?”

Gereint stared at him, still unable to respond.

The king shook his head, looking only slightly mollified. “What Beguchren does not say is that he was following my orders.” He pointed a heavy finger at a chair near Gereint. “Sit down and listen.”

Gereint sank into the indicated chair.

“You were to be returned to Perech Fellesteden’s heirs,” the king told him grimly. “Only Lady Tehre Amnachudran came to me and told me a story that interested me. Beguchren has an urgent need for a strong maker. I told Beguchren he could have you. I said: How useful, the man is already
geas
bound! But Beguchren said if he could have free loyalty instead of bound obedience, that would suit him better. So I told him to try your loyalty and courage. I said, prove both or be satisfied with the
geas.
That was my order, do you understand?” He paused.

Evidently satisfied by the quality of Gereint’s silence, the king then went on: “So you are here, free. And I have no use for these, unless I think of another use, do you understand?” He picked up a pair of small silver rings from a side table and threw them down on the polished desk so that they rang like bells.

Gereint had not noticed the rings until the king picked them up, and flinched involuntarily as they rolled and chimed on the desk. He knew what threat the king was making with that gesture—then he realized, belatedly, what threat the king might
actually
be making and could not stop himself from flinching a second time.

“So,” the king said, giving him a hard stare, “you serve my friend Beguchren as he requires, and I will let
you
choose how to dispose of those, do you understand me, Gereint Enseichen? You may melt them down or throw them in the river, what you wish. That is the coin
I
offer—but if you will not serve my mage, I will think of something else to do with them. Do you understand?”

Gereint began to say “yes,” found his mouth too dry to speak, and swallowed. At last he managed to whisper, “I understand.”

“I think you do,” the king said. “Beguchren, tell me later what you decide. But soon. Yes?”

The mage inclined his head a minute degree. “Of course.”

“Hah. Of course you will,” said the king. He gave his mage a short nod, and Gereint one last scowl, and went out.

“He is not so harsh as he pretends,” Beguchren said, wryly apologetic. “Gereint Enseichen, I did not wish to, as you say, play a game of threats and the iron with you, and I ask your pardon.”

Gereint did not answer. He was not sure he
could
answer. He felt as though he’d battered down a door and stormed through, only to find he had stepped over a cliff. As though he were still falling, even now.

“You’re very angry,” the mage observed. “And—understandably—very frightened.” He turned and went to a sideboard, poured wine from a carafe into a silver cup, topped the cup up with water, came back, and held the cup out to Gereint.

Gereint took it silently and held it, not drinking.

“I have no doubt you’ve swallowed a great deal of anger and fear in your life,” said the mage. He leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, barely tall enough to do so, and tilted his head, meeting Gereint’s eyes. His manner was more assured than many a court noble’s; indeed, his manner was entirely unlike the usual arrogance of an ordinary court noble; the white-haired mage seemed to combine assurance with an unusual, wry matter-of-factness. He added softly, “I’m glad you trust me enough to show your anger to me. The Arobern was wrong to admonish you for it.”

Gereint put his cup down on the arm of his chair hard enough that the watered wine nearly sloshed over the rim and started to get to his feet, then changed his mind and sank back. He demanded harshly, “What do you want from me? What did you
do
to me?”

“I did nothing, or nearly nothing,” the mage said gently. “Truly, Gereint. I went into your mind, but you know what I saw there. You have a specific sort of gift: not merely strong, but peculiarly, mmm, flexible, and flexible in particular ways. Did you know?” He paused, but when Gereint did not answer, he went on. “Your gift is suitable, I believe, for my need. I needed to know whether that was so. So I went into your mind, into the private memories you hold. That is why you are so angry. But I had no choice. Gereint Enseichen, I ask your pardon.”

For the third time. Gereint was beginning to feel that continued refusal might merely be churlish. He managed a curt nod.

Beguchren bowed his head a little, despite the ill grace of that nod. “Good. Thank you. You say the man who removed your brand did it for kindness; you claimed a man in Dachsichten did it for principle. Will you believe, at least, that if I did not act from kindness, I might have done so from principle?”

“Cold magecraft is what fashions the
geas
rings!”

“My principles are not entirely consistent, I admit.” The mage paused, then added softly, “But I was glad to free you, Gereint.”

Gereint stared at him wordlessly. If he had spoken, he knew he would say too much, so he said nothing.

“It’s true I act from my need. But what I need from you, you must give willingly. Perhaps time will lay a foundation for trust to grow. There will be at least a little time. I will be going north tomorrow. You will go with me. I will expect you at the Emnerechke Gates at dawn.”

It did not escape Gereint that the mage still had not said what it actually
was
he needed from him. Clearly, he was not going to. He did not ask again, but said instead, “You’ll expect me, will you?”

The pale-eyed mage tilted his head. “Shall I not? I know you are capable of gratitude. You might belong now to Lord Fellesteden’s heirs; what do you owe me that you are here”—a slight downward gesture with two fingers—“and free?”

Gereint set his jaw.

“And beyond any consideration of debt and gratitude… I need your help,” the mage added softly. “I do not wish to sound overly dramatic, Gereint Enseichen, but as it happens, we have encountered some difficulty in the north. There are no more mages now, you know. Only I. I am in need of a maker with a strong gift, a certain kind of gift; the kind I believe you possess. A man possessed of both courage and integrity; a man”—and this time the slight, wry gesture compared his own height to Gereint’s—“who is physically strong. So… I shall expect you at the Emnerechke Gates at dawn. Shall I?”

Gereint wanted, for no reason he understood, to say “Yes.” He wanted to bow his head dutifully and agree. He set himself hard against any such acquiescence and said nothing.

“Then, though you may wish to take your leave elsewhere in the city, I shall expect you at the gates at dawn,” concluded the mage imperturbably, exactly as though he had agreed.