Authors: Carol Berg
Transformation (31 page)
The Prince jumped to his feet. “Damnation! I should have sent Kiril a message the moment I knew. And now he’ll hear it from someone else, and that I ... oh, gods! They’ll tell him I killed Dmitri. He’ll be out for my blood.” He paced around the fire, kicking at his saddle pack, at the firewood, at the rocks, at the spikes of dead grass and anything else his boot could find save me. “I won’t fight Kiril. I won’t. He was never any good. They won’t make me do it. Everlasting curses on these demons. You will show me how to avenge myself on them, Seyonne.”
I saw no point in explaining that there was no such thing as revenge on demons. Demons care nothing one way or the other how things come out. They feed on pain and terror, and if the source of their sustenance is removed from them, they go elsewhere ... unless they are destroyed by sorcery. The Khelid, on the other hand ... we were going to have to do some thinking about the Khelid.
I still had no inkling of their relationship with the Gai Kyallet. The Lord of Demons ... everything known of such a being was obscured by a thousand years of speculation. Could it truly command others of its kind to a common purpose? The thought was terrifying, even after dismissing the elaborations of Ezzarian prophecy. If the Prince fell victim to this enchantment, there would be no single field of battle for any mythical warrior—the Empire itself would go up in flames. It was Aleksander’s battle that would determine the fate of the world. But his battle with the Demon Lord’s enchantment was only part of it; there was also the battle with his own nature—the hand that had beaten me into insensibility and the hand that had lifted me up. His two parts ... two ... two souls ...
“Stars of night ...” I jumped up from my watch post and started pacing, not believing the fancy that pawed at the doors of my mind like a hungry pup. I had never considered prophecy as absolute truth, only a way of communicating accumulated wisdom. Prophecies of doom were not assurances. Only possibilities. If one didn’t take heed. If one wasn’t aware and careful. Prophecies of glory and victory were encouragement to strength and honor and hard work. Prophecies were comfort in times of need, and pricks of discomfort in times of ease. People could always fit circumstances to the prediction. Yet never had a man displayed two souls as had Aleksander of Azhakstan.
As I sank back to my rocky perch, I laughed at the outlandish scene my imaginings had conjured. How could anyone ever tell the Ezzarians that the warrior hero who was to fight the Second Battle of the Eddaic Prophecy might be a Derzhi?
Aleksander tried to go back to sleep, but after the third time I heard him cursing quietly under his breath, I knew he was no easier in his mind than I. We were on the road before sunrise.
We traveled three days northwest, deep into the mountains, avoiding villages, hiding in the trees when the rare traveler would pass. Aleksander could not say where was our final destination, for the map imprinted on his mind unfolded and changed itself as we traveled. I stood watch in the dark hours that we camped. In the daylight, I clung to the Prince’s back and slept. He asked how I could possibly sleep on the back of a horse, and I told him I could sleep anywhere; the trouble was the dreams. On the third day I couldn’t shake them, and Aleksander’s also seemed to get worse as we went on. Thus it was that we were both awake and unsettled at moonrise on the fourth night from Capharna, when a dark figure stepped out of the shadows and said, “Who are you who have followed the way of the gyrbeast?”
I quickly pulled the hood of my cloak down low over my face. So it had come—more quickly than I expected. Rejoicing and despair and overpowering memory all at once. The first Ezzarian I met, and not only did I know him, but he was bound to me by ties of blood and affection and grief. His name was Hoffyd. My brother-in-law.
My older sister Elen had adored the quiet scholar and lifted him from the depths of failure when she agreed to marry him. He had tried to become a Comforter, one who could touch a demon victim and allow the Aife to work through him even at a great distance, but he had too little melydda and was too shy to be sent into the world. After finding his happiness in Elen, he discovered his calling in his talent for formalizing spells and enchantments, a useful scholarly pursuit.
Hoffyd had fought beside my father and Elen on that last day, attempting to preserve an escape route for our Queen. My brave and lovely older sister had refused to leave with the other women when our last refuge was ready to fall. Elen, a red scarf in her dark hair, had been waving and smiling at me as she whirled a pikestaff ... a pitiful, primitive pikestaff ... at an armored Thrid mercenary who took her head without slowing his step. My father had fallen ten seconds later. I had wielded a sword and a knife and every skill I possessed, thinking that somehow I could turn the tide of blood that was drowning us. I had fought for twenty hours straight that day, not understanding how the Derzhi had found us so quickly, in despair because everyone within my sight was dying, and we had nowhere else to run....
Even as I barricaded the doors to that memory yet again, and calmed the shaking sickness that always accompanied it, I blessed Aleksander for making me come. I had seen my father and my sister die, but if Hoffyd yet lived, perhaps others I loved did also. Even if I was dead to all of them, even if they looked through me as though I were a pane of glass, unworthy of stopping the eye, the possibility that I might see friends alive against all expectation swelled my heart. I experienced such a blossoming of hope as can only be felt by one who has lived a lifetime without.
“My name is Pytor,” I said, keeping my head down. “My employer was told the way by a slave who took pity on him. The boy said that those who would meet him in this place could take away a demon enchantment.”
“And who is your employer?”
“My name is Zander,” said the Prince, stepping into the moonlight. The silver beams illuminated his tall form so that one could imagine the feadnach leaking out of his skin. “I am a Derzhi warrior and thus your enemy, but I’ve come in peace. I’ve been told you can remove this deviltry.”
Chapter 20
“A Derzhi!” Hoffyd spit at Aleksander’s feet. “What makes you think I’ll take you one step closer to my people? Did you torture the slave to discover the way?”
I prepared to leap in between them, but Aleksander’s clenched fist did not stray from his side. “I was given it freely,” said the Prince. “In exchange for my word not to bring the law of the Empire down on your heads.”
“The word of a murdering Derzhi.”
“I should cut out your tongue for that.” Aleksander turned his back to Hoffyd and waved at me. “Saddle our horses.”
“Please, my lord, I’m sure the gentleman had no intent to question your honor. The boy swore that these people could help you be rid of this curse.”
“Even our enemies know that our word is the water of life to us.”
“Please, my lord.”
“I will not argue the matter, nor will I beg. Just tell me if my informant was wrong. Do Ezzarians heal demon enchantments or do they not?” The Prince was frosted steel. Though I could well understand Hoffyd’s sentiments, I wanted to kick him for his careless speech.
I poked at the fire and it flared up, lighting Hoffyd’s round angry face like a second moon. Though he was no more than forty-five, his hair had gone completely gray, and he wore a patch over one eye. That must be a sore trial to him. He had been a voracious reader, managing to get his hands on every book that found its way into Ezzaria within a week of its arrival. His cheeks were flushed, and his chin quivered with indignation. “What demon enchantment could harm a Derzhi?”
They weren’t getting anywhere. Aleksander moved toward his horse again, but I grabbed his arm, cringing at my own audacity. “My lord,” I said. “Did not the slave tell you another word to say? To convince them of your need?” Under my breath I whispered it as if Aleksander might remember it from my silent mouthings.
“Fead ... something. I don’t remember his gibberish. He said I had it along with the enchantment. It sounded like a disease. He said it would make these people listen.”
“Fead ...” It took Hoffyd a moment to grasp it. I wanted to shake him until the word popped from his tongue. “Not the feadnach? Surely not.”
“Yes, that was it, wasn’t it, Pytor?”
“Aye, my lord. That was the word. He said you bore this feadnach within you, and that because of it, the Ezzarians could not refuse to help you.”
Hoffyd’s cheeks sagged. “Someone told you that you—a Derzhi—bore the feadnach? Who was it? What was the name?”
Aleksander glanced at me uncertainly.
“He was a youth captured in Capharna a few weeks ago,” I said. “He did not want to say his name.”
The Ezzarian closed his eyes for a moment—a silent mourning for Llyr, I guessed—before continuing more quietly. “A Derzhi who bears the feadnach? Impossible.” Hoffyd’s disbelief echoed my own. “The boy was not skilled enough. Who knows what he imagined? Perhaps he thought it would save him.”
My brother-in-law was likely correct—though Llyr had a Warden’s mentor, it was almost certain the boy had not yet been skilled enough to see what I had seen. But the suggestion of it should be sufficient. Hoffyd was not skilled enough, either. He was a scholar who saw patterns in enchantment and natural objects. Only those who had been trained to do so could see into the soul. Someone else would have to judge.
He came to his decision faster than I’d hoped. “I’ll take you.”
“And my servant will accompany us,” said Aleksander.
“Is he enchanted, too?”
“No. But I’ll not leave him out here to freeze. He has no horse.”
“If we find you’ve deceived us ...”
“If I did not wish so fervently to be rid of this affliction, I would not ride to so desolate an iceberg to find a whole army of Ezzarians. If you can heal me, I might begin to believe there is some point to your existence.” Aleksander at his diplomatic best.
Hoffyd gave his opinion more succinctly. “If you bear the feadnach, I’m a jackal’s pup.”
“Should I load our things, sir?” I said.
“Best do it quickly. We leave now,” said Hoffyd. “Let’s get this foolishness over with so we can send you back where you came from.”
It was some three strange, long days until we reached the Ezzarian hiding place. Three days of paths that seemed to go nowhere, then doubled back on themselves. Of grades so steep we had to lead the horses, and that left us panting for air though we would have sworn we were going downhill all the time. Of turnings and twistings and tunnels and ridges, all of them obscured by fog and mind-haze, so that at the end of the day we could not remember where we’d been.
The journey ended at mid-morning on the fourth day, just as the sun brightened enough to warm my dark cloak. We were sitting on the crest of a ridge overlooking a broad, forested valley, blanketed with snow. A small river wound through the rolling countryside, frozen, and glittering in the sunlight. Five or six stone houses were clustered in the open beside the riverbank, with a few more scattered along the river course northwards through the valley. Thin trailers of gray smoke against the clear blue of the sky told me that most of the homes were nestled in the trees, just as they had been in the ancient forests of oak and pine where I had been born. This was a beautiful place, ringed by the snow-covered spires of the mountains, but it was not the soft green bounty of Ezzaria. It was as if a frost giant from a child’s nursery tale had blown his cruel breath upon my home, leaving it frozen and sterile. There could be no melydda bound in those frosted trees, or that ice-clad earth.
Hoffyd led us down a steep trail and along the winding road that took us to the settlement by the river. As I knew he would, he deposited us at a guest house: a small, neat stone cottage at the end of the settlement farthest from the trees.
We had passed only a few people on our way. A woman carrying a basket of linen into a house. A man wheeling a barrow of small bags of grain or flour down the road toward the forest. And two running children—a boy and a girl—streaked by us toward one of the houses by the river. I was filled with indescribable pleasure at the sight of them. None of the four were known to me, but they were most certainly Ezzarian. Alive and free.
“We ask that you remain here until someone comes for you,” said Hoffyd, pushing open the door of the cottage. “You’re not permitted to walk about the village or speak to anyone without our leave.”
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