Magic's Pawn (29 page)

There was a flare of light; Vanyel winced away from it - it was quite painful after the near-total darkness of the last candlemark or so. When he could bear to look again, he saw that Tylendel had dismounted and was leading his horse, a red ball of mage-light bobbing along above his head.

He scrambled off of his own mount, glad enough to be out of that excruciatingly uncomfortable saddle, snatched the reins of the beast over its head, and hastened to catch up.

“Are we far enough away yet?” he asked, longing for even a single word from the trainee to break the silence and tension. Tylendel’s face was drawn and fey, and strained; Tylendel’s attention was plainly somewhere else, his whole aspect wrapped up in the kind of terrifying concentration that had been all too common to him of late.

“Almost,” he replied, after a long and unnerving silence. His voice had a strange quality to it, as if Tylendel was having to work to get even a single word out past whatever it was he was concentrating on. “I’m - looking for something…”

Vanyel shivered, and not from the cold. “What?”

“A place to put the Gate.” They came to a break in the hedge. No - not a break. When Tylendel stopped and led his horse over to it, Vanyel could see that it was the remains of a gated opening in the hedge, long since overgrown. Beyond the gap something bulked darkly in the dim illumination provided by the mage-light. Tylendel nodded slightly. “I thought I remembered this place,” .he muttered. He didn’t seem to expect a response, so “Vanyel didn’t make one.

It was obvious that the horses were not going to be able to force themselves through so narrow a passage; Tylendel stripped the bridle from his, hung it on the saddlebow, and gave the gelding a tremendous slap on the hip that made it snort with surprise and sent it cantering off into the darkness. Vanyel did the same with his,
not
sorry to see it go, and turned away from the road to see that Tylendel had already forced his way past the gap in the hedge and was now out of sight. Only the reddish glow of the mage-light through the leafless branches of the hedgerow showed where he had gone.

Vanyel shoved his way past the branches, cursing as they caught on his cloak and scratched at his face. When he emerged, staggering, from the prickly embrace of stubborn bushes, he found that he was standing knee-deep in weeds, in what had been the yard of a small building. It could have been anything from a shop to a cottage, but was now going to pieces; the yard was as overgrown as the gate had been. The building seemed to be entirely roofless and the door and windows were mere holes in the walls. Tylendel was examining the remains of the door with care.

The gap where the door had been was a large one, easily large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Tylendel nodded again, and this time there was an expression of dour satisfaction on his face. “This will do,” he said softly. “Van, think you’re ready?”

Vanyel took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little. “As ready as I’m ever likely to get,” he replied.

Tylendel turned and took both Vanyel’s hands in his; he looked searchingly into Vanyel’s eyes for a long moment. “Van, I’m going to have to force that link between us wide open for this to work. I may hurt you. I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise. Are you still willing to help me?”

Vanyel nodded, thinking,
I’ve come this far; it would be stupid to back out at this point. Besides
-
he needs this. How can I not give it to him
?

Tylendel closed his eyes; his face froze into as impassive a mask as Vanyel had ever worn. Vanyel waited, trembling a little, for something to happen.

For a long while, nothing did. Then -

Rage flamed up in him; a consuming, obsessive anger that left very little room for anything else. One thing mattered: Staven was dead. One goal drove him: deal the same painful death to Staven’s murderers. There was still a tiny corner of his mind that could think for itself and wonder at the overwhelming power of Tylendel’s fury, but that corner had been locked out of any position of control.

The truism ran “Pain shared is pain halved” - but this pain was doubled on being shared.

He turned to face the ancient doorway without any conscious decision to do so, Tylendel turning even as he did. He saw Tylendel raise his arms and cast a double handful of something powderlike on the ground before the door; heard him begin a chant in some strange tongue and hold his now empty hands, palm outward, to face that similarly empty gap.

He felt something draining out of him, like blood draining from a wound; and felt that it was taking his strength with it.

The edges of the ruined doorway were beginning to glow, the same sullen red as the mage-light over Tylendel’s head; like the muted red of embers, as if the edge of the doorway smoldered. As more and more of Vanyel’s energy and strength drained from him, the ragged border’ brightened, and tiny threads of angry scarlet wavered from them into the space where the door had stood. More and more of these threads spun out, waving like water-weeds in a current, until two of the ends connected across the gap.

There was a surge of force out of him, a surge that nearly caused his knees to collapse, as the entire gap filled with a flare of blood-red light -

Then the light vanished - and the gap framed, not a shadowed blackness, but a garden; a formal garden decorated for a festival, and filled with people, light and movement.

He had hardly a chance to see this before Tylendel grabbed his arm and pulled him, stumbling, across the threshold. There was a moment of total disorientation, as though the world had dropped from beneath his feet, then-

Sound: laughter, music, shouting. He stood, with Tylendel, facing that garden he had seen through the ruined doorway, and beyond the garden, a strange keep. Lanterns bobbed gaily in the branches of a row of trees that stood between them and the gathered people, and trestle tables, spread with food and lanterns, were visible on the farther side. Near the trees was a lighted platform on which a band of motley musicians stood, playing with a vigor that partially made up for their lack of skill. Before the platform a crowd of people were dancing in a ring, laughing and singing along with the music.

Vanyel’s knees would not hold him; as soon as Tylendel let go of his arm, his legs gave way, and he found himself half-kneeling on the ground, dizzy, weak and nauseated. Tylendel didn’t notice; his attention was on the people dancing.

“They’re
celebrating,”
Tylendel whispered, and the anger Vanyel was inadvertently sharing surged along the link between them. “Staven’s
dead
, and they’re
celebrating!”

That small, rational corner still left to Vanyel whispered that this was
only
a Harvestfest like any other; that the Leshara weren’t particularly gloating over an enemy’s death. But that logical voice was too faint to be heard over the thunder of Tylendel’s outrage. A wave of dizziness clouded his sight with a red mist, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

When he could see again, Tylendel had stepped away from him, and was standing between him and the line of trees with his hands high over his head. From Tylendel’s upraised hands came twin bolts of the same vermilion lightning that had lashed the pine grove a moon ago. Only
this
lightning was controlled and directed; and it cracked across the garden and destroyed the trees standing between him and the gathered Leshara-kin in less time than it took to blink.

In the wake of the thunderbolt came startled screams; the music ended in a jangle of snapped strings and the squawk of horns. The dancers froze, and clutched at each other in clumps of two to five. Tylendel’s mage-light was blazing like a tiny, scarlet sun above his head; his face was hate-filled and twisted with frenzy. Tears streaked his face; his voice cracked as he screamed at them.

“He’s
dead
, you bastards! He’s
dead
, and you’re
laughing
, you’re
singing! Damn you all, I’ll teach you to sing a different song! You want magic? Well
, here’s
magic for you
- ‘‘

Vanyel couldn’t move; he seemed tethered to the still-glowing Gate behind him. He could only watch, numbly, as Tylendel raised his hands again - and this time it was not lightning that crackled from his upraised hands. A glowing sphere appeared with a sound of thunder, suspended high above him. About the size of a melon, it hung in the air, rotating slowly, a smoky, sickly yellow. It grew as it turned, and drifted silently away from Tylendel and toward the huddled Leshara-folk, descending as it neared them, until it came to earth in the center of the blasted, blackened place where the trees had been a moment before.

There it rested; still turning, still growing, until it had swelled to twice the height of a man.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, it burst.

Another wave of disorientation washed over him; Vanyel blinked eyes that didn’t seem to be focusing properly. Where the globe had rested there seemed to be a twisting, twining mass of shadow-shapes, shapes as fluid as ink, as sinuous as snakes, shapes that were
there
and
not there
at one and the same time.

Then they slid apart, those shapes, separating into five writhing mist-forms. They solidified -

If some mad god had mated a viper and a coursing-hound, and grown the resulting offspring to the size of a calf, the result
might
have looked something like the five creatures snarling and flowing lithely around one another in the gleaming of Tylendel’s mage-light. In color they were a smoky black, with skin that gave an impression of smooth scales rather than hair. They had long, long necks, too long by far, and arrowhead-shaped heads that were an uncanny mingling of snake and greyhound, with yellow, pupilless eyes that glowed in the same way and with the same shifting color that the globe that had birthed them had glowed. The teeth in those narrow muzzles were needle-sharp, and as long as a man’s thumb. They had bodies like greyhounds as well, but the legs and tails seemed unhealthily stretched and unnaturally boneless.

They regarded Tylendel with unwavering, saffron eyes; they seemed to be waiting for something.

He quavered out a single word, his voice breaking on the final, high-pitched syllable - and they turned as one entity to face the cowering folk of Leshara, mouths gaping in unholy parodies of a dog’s foolish grin.

But before they had flowed a single step toward their victims, a shrill scream of equine defiance rang out from behind Vanyel.

And Gala thundered through the Gate at his back, pounding past him, then past Tylendel, ignoring the trainee completely.

She screamed again, more anger and courage in her cry than Vanyel had ever thought possible to hear in a horse’s voice, and skidded to a halt halfway between Tylendel and the things he had called up.
She
was glowing, just like she had during ‘Lenders fit; a pure, blue-white radiance that attracted the eye in the same way that the yellow glow of the beasts’ eyes repelled. She continued to ignore Tylendel’s presence entirely, turning her back to him; rearing up to her full height and pawing the air with her forehooves, trumpeting a challenge to the five creatures before her.

They reversed their positions in an instant as her hooves touched the ground again, facing her with silent snarls of anger. She pawed the earth, and bared her teeth at them, daring them to try to fight her.

“Gala!” Tylendel cried in anguish, his voice breaking yet again.
“Gaia! Don’t
- “

She turned her head just enough to look him fully in the eyes - and Vanyel heard her mental reply as it rang through Tylendel’s mind and heart and splintered his soul.

:I
do not know you
: she said coldly, remotely.
:You are not my Chosen.
:

And with those words, the bond that had been between them vanished. Vanyel could feel the emptiness where ithad been - for he was still sharing everything Tylendel felt.

Tylendel’s rage shattered on the cold of those words.

And when the bond was broken, what took its place was utter desolation.

Vanyel moaned in anguish, sharing Tylendel’s agony, and the torment and bereavement as he called after Gaia with his mind and received not even the echo of a reply. Where there had been warmth and love and support there was now - nothing; not even a ghost of what had been.

The link between them surged with loss, and Vanyel’s vision darkened.

He heard Tylendel cry out Gala’s name in utter despair, and willed his eyes to clear.

And to his horror he watched her fling herself at the five fiends, heedless of her own safety.

They swarmed over and about her, their darkness extinguishing her light. He heard her shriek, but this time in pain, and saw the red splash of blood bloom vividly on her white coat.

He tried to stagger to his feet, but had no strength; his ears roared, and he blacked out.

He barely felt himself falling again, and only Tylendel’s scream of anguish and loss penetrated enough to make him fight his way back to consciousness.

He found himself half-sprawled on the cold ground. He shoved himself partially erect despite his spinning head, and looked for Gala -

But there was no Companion, no fight. Only a mutilated corpse, sprawling torn and ravaged, throat slashed to ribbons, the light gone from the sapphire eyes. Tylendel was on his knees beside her, stroking the ruined head, weeping hoarsely.