The Gate of Gods (Fall of the Ile-Rien) (17 page)

“We won’t be here for winter.” Cletia, more literal-minded, was eyeing them both a little suspiciously. “Will we?”

Ilias rolled his eyes. Annoyed, Giliead told her, “We’re just talking.”

I hope we’re just talking,
Tremaine thought, licking the last of the fish off her fingers. She thought the reason Giliead and Ilias had spoken of the possibility of being trapped here for a long time was because it was in both their minds. They had looked at the country around their mountain shelter with an eye to long-term survival, and she had the feeling they had decided that the prospect wasn’t good, not without more supplies and time they didn’t have.
Hell, even I can tell it’s a little late to grow crops,
she thought dryly.
Especially on top of this mountain.
“You don’t want to live here, Cletia? It’s almost homey now.”

Cletia gave her a somewhat arch look, acknowledging that this was not a friendly overture, then poked at the fire. “It’s too bad we don’t have Sanior with his laik,” she said.

Tremaine frowned thoughtfully, remembering her Syrnaic vocabulary. A laik was a musical instrument, something like a harp and something like a guitar. Sanior had brought one on the
Ravenna
and played it occasionally, though Tremaine had never had leisure to listen to it.

Cletia added to Ilias, “If we did, you could dance for us.”

Ilias regarded her with a lifted brow, as if he knew he was being taunted and was waiting for the punch line of the joke.
All right,
Tremaine thought,
with this one I have to take the bait.
“Dance?” she asked.

Giliead answered, “Young men of wealthier houses are supposed to learn things, playing the laik or the cyere, singing, dancing, for festivals and family celebrations.” He had kept his eyes on Cletia through this explanation, a line between his brows, as if he couldn’t quite decide what she was up to but he knew it was no good.

He had used another word Tremaine didn’t know. “What’s the cyere?”

Giliead thought for a moment, searching for different words. “Finger cymbals,” he told her.

Still eyeing Cletia, Ilias said deliberately, “It’s too cold here for dancing.”

Cletia looked from Giliead to Ilias, pressed her lips together, then said in annoyance, “Don’t glare at me, I was only looking for something to talk about.”

Ilias snorted and put a piece of sava in his mouth, as if hoping that would end the discussion. But Tremaine, intrigued, had to ask, “Will you dance for me sometime?”

Ilias transferred the lifted brow expression to her, but this time without the suspicion. “Maybe,” he said, around the sava.

After the meal, Tremaine glanced around, noticing that Vervane was sitting near the wounded man, drinking some of the tea, but Meretrisa was missing. Thinking that the woman had probably retired to the room they had designated as the latrine, Tremaine got up, stretched, and wandered out into the corridor.

The brush wind block still leaned back against the wall, and the sky outside the sheltering overhang was taking on the violet tinge of early evening. Trying to rub a kink out of her neck, Tremaine glanced up and saw Meretrisa seated beside the circle. The Capidaran sorceress was copying the symbols down in a small leather-bound notebook. Tremaine’s mouth twisted. The Rienish command had given the mobile circle and instructions for constructing spheres to Kressein and the other Capidaran sorcerers as part of their alliance; did Meretrisa think they would withhold this new circle, that she couldn’t trust them to pass it along as well?
And if we were going to withhold it, does she really think we’d be stupid enough to let the Capidaran Ministry know it existed?

She strolled into the larger chamber, giving Meretrisa a casual nod as if she was encountering an acquaintance at the omnibus stop. But Meretrisa smiled self-consciously, as if aware she had committed a social gaffe, and put the notebook away in her jacket pocket.

Gerard walked in then, his hair disordered, in his shirtsleeves, eating a piece of sava and squinting at the sky. He said in Syrnaic, “It will be close to dawn in Capistown. This is as good a time to try as any.”

Giliead and Ilias followed him, Giliead saying, “If any Gardier stayed to watch the house, they’ll be weary of it by now and more easily taken by surprise.”

“If Nicholas was able to destroy the circle, the Gardier should have had no reason to remain.” Gerard looked around with a frown, absently patting the bag slung over his shoulder as if making sure the sphere was still there. “I’m still hoping our friends have just been delayed and the situation in Capistown isn’t that serious.”

Meretrisa hastily backed away from the circle as Gerard stepped into it. Giliead followed him. Ilias folded his arms and regarded him in a disgruntled way. Tremaine understood this was payment received for Ilias’s accompanying Gerard on his first experimental trip here.
Men,
she thought, suppressing an annoyed snort.
Syprian men, in particular.
“Gerard, do you have a pistol with you?”

Gerard struggled into his coat, then took the sphere out of the bag, brushing lint off its polished surface. It was smaller than Arisilde’s sphere and considerably less dented and tarnished. “Yes, but if there’s a need for it, we’ll be returning immediately.”

Tremaine exchanged an ironic look with Ilias. Neither one of them needed to say, “You hope,” but clearly they both wanted to.

“If they find the Gardier there, what will we do?” Meretrisa said, low-voiced. She folded her arms, tucking her hands into her wool jacket, and shivered. The breeze from the opening was turning cold again as the sun sank, but Tremaine suspected it wasn’t the chill in the air that affected her. And Meretrisa did live in Capistown.

“Don’t worry about that yet,” Tremaine said, shifting uncomfortably. If Capistown had fallen so easily…
At least the
Ravenna
had a chance to fuel and take on supplies,
she thought pragmatically, but she wasn’t going to say that aloud.

Gerard lifted the sphere and Giliead loosened his sword in its scabbard. Tremaine took a sharp breath.

And nothing happened. The moment stretched, and Giliead glanced at Gerard. Ilias frowned and Meretrisa looked puzzled. Tremaine cleared her throat.

Gerard swore, adjusted his spectacles, took a firmer grip on the sphere and obviously tried again. Again nothing. Tremaine’s stomach tightened.
Oh, don’t let this be what I think it is.
“Gerard…”

Gerard looked away, wiped the sweat off his forehead with his coat sleeve. “It’s not working,” he said grimly.

Ilias stirred uneasily. Tremaine protested, “But it’s never done that before. Neither of them, that sphere or Arisilde. They always work.”

Giliead was looking at the sphere, frowning. He reached out tentatively and Gerard handed it to him. Giliead held it while Tremaine held her breath. “Could you see the spell?” Gerard asked, his voice tense.

Giliead shook his head slightly. “It’s harder to see the curses when it doesn’t have a god.”

“Test it,” Tremaine urged. “Make it do something else.”

Gerard had already reached out, laying a hand lightly on the metal surface. Giliead blinked, flinching a little, as half a dozen wisps of sorcerous blue light sprang to life just above their heads. “I saw that.” He pulled his hand back, self-consciously dusting his fingers off on his shirt.

“It’s not the sphere itself, then.” Gerard cradled it in both hands, his jaw tight with tension. “Let me try again. Perhaps—”

“—it’s just having a bad day,” Tremaine finished under her breath when Gerard left the word hanging. There wasn’t a personality in this sphere. It should work like the clockwork amalgamation that it was.

Gerard tried several times, even bringing Meretrisa into the circle and letting her try with the sphere, but nothing worked. Tremaine paced, Ilias wandered back and forth to the edge of the gorge and kicked loose stones over the precipitate drop to the river, Giliead stood with his arms folded and an increasingly grim expression. Vervane, then Cletia, came to stare worriedly at them and demand an explanation. But the circle refused to work.

Gerard kept trying, until the sky had darkened to an indigo-purple. The wind, blowing from the snowcapped mountains across the gorge, filled the chamber with an icy draft and the translucent balls of sorcerous fire clung to the pillars or were mashed up against the far wall by the force of the wind. Meretrisa had retired to the inner rooms, unable to stand the cold, but Tremaine’s nerves kept her pacing, though her fingers were numb and her joints felt stiff. Giliead had taken a seat on the stone and Ilias had finally settled next to him, using the larger man as a windbreak.

Finally, Gerard stepped out of the circle, flung his notebook onto the stone floor and dropped down to sit beside it, burying his face in his hands. “Let’s look at this logically,” he began, his voice slightly muffled. “I’m using the adjuration in exactly the same way I used it for the first opening of this portal, our return, then our second journey here. There is, in fact, only one varying factor—”

Tremaine couldn’t stand it anymore. She had thought of it earlier and was certain Gerard had as well, but she had been reluctant to say it aloud. “Nicholas was going to destroy the other circle.”

“Yes.” Gerard rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking out toward the gorge. “Shit,” he added succinctly.

Giliead nodded, weary and resigned. “This curse needs two circles, one there, one here.”

“The symbols in the circle gave no indication that…” Gerard didn’t finish the thought, shrugging helplessly.

Ilias shook his head, looking as if he was searching for something optimistic to say and not finding it. “The others… on the
Ravenna
… if we don’t come back, they’ll make another circle.”

“Yes.” Gerard sat up straight, making an effort to sound brisk. “They will, if they survived the attack.” Then he swore, clapping his notebook shut. “If we don’t return, they may abandon the plan to reach Lodun. The whole thing hinged on the success of this circle and how we could use it to create others!”

“Yes, but they’ll come after us…”
Eventually. Which we all know they should have done already.
Tremaine scrubbed her hands through her hair with a moan. “Look, let’s just— Go back by the fire, warm up before we freeze, get some food. Try again tomorrow.” Gerard looked at her bleakly and she gestured vaguely, feeling hopeless and stupid. “We can’t do anything about it.”

Gerard shook his head, but reached up to her and she caught his arm to help him stand. Ilias was already on his feet, shifting the brush screen aside. Giliead stood by, waiting while Gerard collected the mostly useless sphere from inside the circle, slipping it back into its bag.

They trailed through the doorway into the passage and the welcome warmth of fire, Ilias wrestling the wind block into place behind them. Cimarus was out taking his turn at guarding the stairwell; he had constructed another fire pit from loose rock and sat next to it sharpening his sword, with a Syprian blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looked up hopefully and Giliead shook his head, telling him there had been no further developments. Cimarus grimaced and ran the whetstone down his blade again.

Tremaine prodded Gerard on into their chamber; she knew this room would probably feel cold once she got used to it but at the moment it felt as warm as the beach at Chaire during high summer. Cletia and Cimarus must have collected more wood and more sava, as the fire burned high and there was a new collection of the striped melons roasting in the coals, next to the pot which steamed and emitted a fragrant herbal odor. Cletia sat on one side of the fire, the Capidarans on the other, huddled under their collection of coats and blankets, with a sullen Balin in her corner. The wounded man was awake and sitting up. He stood suddenly, wavered on his feet and had to be hastily steadied by Vervane. He demanded, “What’s going on?”

Tremaine’s brows lifted at the peremptory tone. She remembered that his name was Aras but not what he had been doing with the Capidaran party. The sorcerous healing had left splotches of new pink skin on his face and showing through the tears in his shirt and coat. His cropped dark hair looked singed. Ignoring him, she steered Gerard to a seat by the fire and draped his coat over his shoulders. That was the limit of her maternal instinct, so she was grateful when Cletia appeared at her elbow offering a warm mug of the tea from the cooking pot. Tremaine crouched to hand it on to Gerard, noting that the cup was stamped with the old arms of the hotel that had been conscripted as a refugee hostel. She wondered if Cletia had collected it as a souvenir or solely for pragmatic purposes. The Capidaran man demanded again, “What is happening?”

Returning to her seat, Cletia caught Tremaine’s eye and grimaced. Tremaine took it to mean that even with the language barrier, the man had been making himself annoying. Tremaine looked at Meretrisa, asking, “Didn’t you tell them?” She knew that after Meretrisa had left the circle chamber she had been ducking back in to check on Gerard and giving regular updates on their progress and lack of progress to the Capidarans, as Cletia had for Cimarus.

Vervane looked uncomfortable and urged the man to sit down. Meretrisa started to reply, hesitated, and Aras said, “I asked you.”

Tremaine straightened up and eyed him, beginning that slide from annoyance into real anger. “Yes, you asked me.” Ilias had been pacing the chamber, rubbing his arms and trying to warm up. He stopped abruptly, looking at Aras. Giliead was simply standing by the fire, arms folded, watching the man with an air of waiting for him to cross some invisible line.

“Tremaine, this is Langel Aras, speaker to the Capidaran Ministry,” Gerard interrupted. He took a cautious sip of the herbal drink and winced. “Aras, this is Tremaine Valiarde. And you know as much as we do. The return spell won’t work.”