The Silver Mage

by Katharine Kerr

  “Master?” Hwilli said. “I didn’t know that Maraladario cared about my people.”

  “Very much, child. She cares very much.”

  Hwilli’s eyes filled with tears beyond her power to stop them. Jantalaber smiled sadly, then pointedly looked away while she wiped the tears on her napkin.

  “The Meradan, however,” Vela said, “have no such excuse beyond their own evil natures.”

  “Indeed,” Jantalaber said, “I wonder what started them off. It was last winter when they began raiding. They came out of nowhere, it seemed. A famine, I thought, but it seems that wasn’t the case.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Vela said. “Our men have doubtless told your prince all of this already. I don’t understand all of it, but I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Please do.”

  “First of all, you doubtless know already that Tanbalapalim’s threatened.”

  “I’d heard that.” Jantalaber looked Hwilli’s way. “Had you?”

  “Yes,” Hwilli said. “Rhodorix told me. The leader of the Mountain axemen had talked to him on the way here. He thinks that the Meradan have made a winter camp somewhere up in the wild mountains. Rhodorix says that the princes don’t have enough men to go attack it, even if they could find it.”

  “Alas, that’s true.” Vela abruptly shuddered. “I wonder, though, if they’ll go back to Lin Rej. Even in ruins, it’s warmer than the wild hills.”

  “If you could bring yourself to scry into Lin Rej—” Jantalaber said.

  “Eventually.” Vela moved uneasily in her chair. “Not yet.”

  They ate in silence for some moments.

  “But to go back to your question.” Vela nodded at Jantalaber. “Some months ago the council in Lin Rej decided we should strike back instead of sitting in our tunnels like rabbits in their warren. They sent a fighting force against those Meradan who lived in—well, I suppose you’d call that mess of theirs a city. It was really a lot of villages more or less joined together around a harbor.”

  “Was?” Master Jantalaber interrupted her. “Was a city?”

  “Just that,” Vela said with a grim smile. “Messengers came back with the tale. The place had been burnt to the ground. Skeletons lay all over in pieces, pulled around by the ravens and foxes. The axemen never found any heads or skulls, though.”

  Jantalaber pressed a hand over his mouth. Hwilli laid her spoon down in her bowl. She could no longer eat.

  “Oh, it was horrible, all right,” Vela went on. “A survivor told our men that a horde of strangers had come out of the sea. A god brought them, he said, in great big ships bound around with iron chains.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Jantalaber said. “No one puts chains on their ships.”

  “I suppose the disaster had driven the survivors mad.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I can understand now how such could happen.”

  “One of those ghastly Meradan feuds, I suppose,” Jantalaber considered for a moment. “Some stronger tribe probably rode in and took revenge on them for some reason. Maybe they did come by sea, for all we know. I’ll wager the trouble has spread from there, tribe turning upon tribe, and now the losers are fleeing south.”

  “I agree.” Vela nodded. “It’s the only reasonable explanation.”

  Vela continued talking, telling of the destruction the Lin Rej men had found all across the Meradan territory, like the swing of an enormous scythe by a reaper from the hells. Hwilli wrapped her hands together and deliberately drove a thumbnail into the opposite palm. She hovered close to fainting, but the pain brought her round. She knew who those strangers from the sea were. Rhodorix had mentioned how the Devetii bound their ships to keep them from breaking up in storms. For a moment she considered telling the truth—but what would happen to Rhoddo and his brother, if the People realized who had actually brought ruin upon them?

  “Hwilli?” Jantalaber said. “You don’t need to listen to all of this, if you’d like to leave us. You look quite pale, poor child.”

  “My thanks, Master,” Hwilli said. “It’s just all so horrible.”

  “It is that,” Vela said. “Get yourself a little spiced wine. It should help.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Hwilli hurried out and closed the door behind her. She stood trembling in the corridor until her legs steadied under her then went along to the refectory. At the door she paused, looking in, then gasped for breath as the smell of so many terrified and unwashed people swept over her. Somehow she’d never realized that tragedy could stink. Sweat and excreta, dried blood, sour herbs all mingled together into a scent like that of death itself.

  The Mountain Folk had moved the tables over by the walls and piled the chairs on them as well, hiding the beautiful frescoes. On the elaborately tiled floors they’d spread out their blankets and little heaps of rags and trinkets, whatever they’d managed to save as the hordes rushed down the tunnel streets of Lin Rej. Babies wailed, children wept or screamed in nightmare, women chattered at them to “Sleep, please sleep!” as if the words were some sort of spell.

  Hwilli turned away and hurried to her chamber. She wanted to shut the world and the truth out, but Rhodorix was waiting for her, lying on her bed. A candle burned in a lantern sitting on her lectern.

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “You look ill.”

  “Rhoddo, the Meradan. Your people slaughtered their city. Why?”

  He sat up, cocking his head to one side as if he were puzzled.“The one on the seacoast? How do you know—?”

  “I just heard the story. That one, yes.”

  “Well, our ships came into their harbor. We sent heralds, because we wanted to buy food from them. They killed the heralds, cut them to pieces right in front of us. Our men had been shut up in the ships for a long time, and they went berserk, truly.” He grinned at her. “The savages didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  Hwilli considered him, her handsome beloved, who came from a people every bit as vicious as the despised Meradan.

  “How can you smile like that?”

  He wiped the grin away and stared at her, his eyes narrow with confusion.

  “You can’t ever let any of the People know,” Hwilli went on. “Do you understand that? You can’t let them know what your bloodkin started. The wars, I mean, the raiding.”

  All at once he did understand. She could see it in his eyes, a wide-eyed stare, and then a wince of shame. He twisted half away from her and swore under his breath. She waited, terrified, watching him weep. At last he looked at her with his face still wet with tears.

  “It’s fitting,” he said, “that I die for your People. The sooner and more painfully the better.”

  “I didn’t mean that!”

  Hwilli flung herself down next to him on the bed. “Rhoddo, please,” she said, “promise me you won’t tell them. They’ll kill you and me, too, probably, because I knew and didn’t say. Please, please don’t—”

  He grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her close. She could feel herself shaking as if she were half-frozen in a winter snow.

  “I won’t,” he whispered. “Hush, hush, now, I won’t do anything of the sort.” He kissed her, stroked her hair, until at last she could stop trembling. “Put it out of your mind, beloved. I’d never let them hurt you.”

  In his arms, Hwilli could calm herself. As long as they were together, safe and warm in her chamber, she felt safe, she realized, even though she knew how temporary the safety was. Never stop holding me, she thought. If only we could hold each other forever!

  As the days went on, the snow piled up outside, and the winds from the north blew as sharp as a Meradani ax. No one could leave the shelter of the fortress. Crossing the courtyard became a battle with the gods of snow and ice. Every morning the servants of the priests had to shovel the snow from the top of the priests’ tower before the gongs could ring out, oddly sour and muffled in the icy air. No one ever saw the priests themselves, who stayed snug in their heated chambers, preparing
for the midwinter ceremony to come.

  Thanks to the weather, Maraladario stopped coming to the herbroom of an evening, though at times Jantalaber would take his two apprentices and visit her. At other times, he told them, when the air was free of snow and its etheric vibrations, he and Maral spoke mind to mind.

  “We’re continuing with our scheme, of course,” Jantalaber said one morning. “We’ve settled on the Lake of the Leaping Trout, over on the east side of the grasslands, for the site. That’s just north of Elditiña, and there’s a convenient bridge over the River Delonderiel.” He sighed heavily. “The project gives us something to think about, I suppose, more pleasant than—well, everything.”

  “The situation’s getting pretty bad, isn’t it?” Paraberiel said. “Here in the fortress, I mean. It seems like every day there are half-a-dozen fights between the Mountain axemen and our men.”

  “There are too many people here. I just hope none of these squabbles end with someone swinging their sword or ax.” Jantalaber smiled thinly. “Or we’ll have even more work to do.”

  “Could you ask the prince to take away their weapons?” Par said.

  “I could, and he could try, but I suspect that none of the men would hand them over. It’s a horrible thing, when men that need each other so badly begin to fight among themselves. Well, when this blizzard stops, they can go out on patrol. Tire them out in the snow, and they’ll be more peaceful.”

  Paraberiel and Hwilli dutifully smiled at the jest, which reminded Hwilli of a problem of her own.

  “Par, I meant to ask you,” she said. “Could you take over my patient, Gerontos? His leg’s nearly healed, but someone should look in on him fairly regularly. If the master agrees, of course.”

  “I could, certainly,” Par said.

  “What’s all this?” The master turned to Hwilli.

  “He looks forward too much to my visits. When Nalla was still here, it didn’t matter, but now I hate to be alone with him.”

  “Oh.” Jantalaber nodded in understanding. “Very well, Par. He’s your patient from now on.” He paused for a sigh. “I’m glad he’s nearly healed. We’ve got so many new patients among the Mountain Folk that I doubt if our herb supply will last the winter.”

  The slow days piled up around them like the snow itself. More than herbs began to run short, despite the extra food taken from the farm folk. The refugees from Lin Rej had brought nothing with them, and the Mountain Folk tended to eat heartily at all times. Prince Ranadar spent much of his time answering complaints and accusations, that the People were hoarding, that the Mountain Folk were greedy, that the fortress was far too cold. Worse yet was the feeling among the prince’s guard that the usual winter catarrhs and rheums were somehow the fault of the Mountain Folk. Hwilli and the other healers explained over and over again that no, the refugees had not somehow brought disease into the fortress, that those minor ills struck every year.

  “They’re a bit worse this year, though,” Hwilli admitted to Rhodorix, “but then, everyone’s on edge and frightened, so maybe they just seem worse.”

  “I’ll accept that,” Rhodorix said. “I keep telling my men to worry about themselves and their horses and let the prince worry about the men from Lin Rej.”

  “That’s probably all you can do. At least the days are getting longer now.”

  “That last snow seemed light, too. Let’s hope that spring comes soon.”

  Hwilli felt as if her heart stopped, just for a few moments, then started again with a wrench that left her trembling.

  “Spring means the war starts up again,” she said.

  “Perhaps. If it’s true that the Meradan have been camping up in the mountains, there may not be a lot of them left by spring.”

  “Didn’t the prince tell you about the scrying?”

  “No,” Rhodorix looked puzzled. “What scrying?”

  “Mistress Vela’s fairly sure the horde went back into Lin Rej. She’s been scrying, and she can see someone moving around in there. It’s in ruins, but it would still be better than the shelter they’d find in the wild mountains.”

  Rhodorix swore under his breath. “If the prince didn’t tell me and Andariel,” he said, “it means he didn’t want any of the guards to know. Not a word to anyone else about this, beloved. It could send the axemen into a blind rage, and it could sink the fighting spirits of our men. Do you understand?”

  “I do, truly.”

  “Good.” Rhodorix said nothing more for a long moment. “We’ll deal with them when spring comes. There’s naught we can do about it now.”

  That he was so obviously right wrung her heart, but she smiled and put on a brave face, just to ease his worry. Yet not two days later she received news that left her helpless against tears. Nalla contacted her during a scrying practice.

  “I’m so sorry,” Nalla said, “but you have to know. Your mother caught a fever. She died last night in her sleep.”

  Hwilli tried to speak, but the only sound she could make turned into a sob.

  “I know,” Nalla said. “I’m so sorry. Hwilli, I’m leaving Rinbaladelan in the spring. I’m being sent to meet Maraladario at the Lake of the Leaping Trout. I’ll tell you more then.”

  Hwilli nodded to show she’d heard, then dropped her face into her hands and wept. The vision disappeared and left her to her grief.

  The shortest day of the year came icy cold but clear. The gongs woke the fortress to a night darkness that hid what would have been late morning in summer. Rhodorix rolled out of bed, dressed, and then woke Hwilli.

  “I’m going to fetch Gerro,” he told her. “It’s almost time for the sacrifices.”

  She sat up and yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, and nodded to show she’d heard him.

  “No going back to sleep!” He grinned at her. “The gods will be angry.”

  “Huh! The gods aren’t going to notice someone like me.”

  “Wear that new dress anyway, just in case.”

  “I will, then, and my thanks to you again.”

  Rhodorix had asked for cloth as part of his guardsman’s pay in order to give it to Hwilli. Much to his surprise, he’d been able to get her a dress already sewn up by the prince’s wife’s women, a further mark of the rhix’s favor toward him. “The horses are our living wall,” the prince had told him. “You have my thanks.” Rhodorix treasured the memory, letting it roll around his mind like fine music.

  In the cold Gerontos had trouble walking, even with his stick. Rhodorix let his brother lean on him as they made their slow way outside to the courtyard in front of the palace. Women carrying torches stood in a line at the outer walls of the buildings and ringed the inner walls of the fortess itself. The healers stood on the steps of the palace. Hwilli hurried forward with her fellow apprentice.

  “We’ll help Gerro,” she said. “You’d best take your place. Remember, don’t say a word until the priests say it’s finished.”

  “Well and good, then,” Rhodorix said. “I won’t.”

  Andariel had already gotten the rest of the guards in place, horsemen to the right of what at first looked like a pile of firewood, infantry to the left, archers equally divided among the two contingents. As horsemaster, Rhodorix joined the captain up in the front rank. From that position he could see that the firewood had been carefully stacked into a temporary altar, square in shape, some twelve feet on a side though only about five feet high.

  When he glanced up, he saw men on the holy tower beside the gleaming brass gongs, but as yet neither the priests nor the white cows had made an appearance in the courtyard. They were, he surmised, waiting for the prince to arrive—soon, Rhodorix hoped. Even in their heavy cloaks the men were shivering in place. Finally silver horns sounded. The healers on the palace steps moved aside to let Ranadar through. He took a torch from one of the women and stalked up to the altar. In the flickering light he looked furious, his preternaturally handsome face drawn tight and grim under the hood of his cloak.

  With the prince
in place other horns shrieked, the sour bronze cry of the priestly instruments. Marching in lockstep, their gold-and-sapphire decorations glittering, the priests were coming with their usual bodyguards around them, the silver alloy swords gleaming like the teeth of wolves. At the rear, two of them led sacrifices, but not the cows. Rhodorix choked back a curse just in time. The two Meradan prisoners of war shuffled along, draped in drab cloaks, their hands bound, their heads shaved.

  Had they been back in the homeland, Rhodorix could have stepped forward and demanded his prisoners back. They might have chosen to live as his slaves or to face the altar and go free of him forever. As it was, he could do nothing but watch as the priests led them to the firewood structure. They stood heads down and hopeless as the priestly contingent gathered around them.

  With raised arms, the priests began to pray, a long litany in the language of the People, but some ancient and holy form of it, just different enough that Rhodorix, who’d left the crystals back in Gerontos’ chamber, could understand little of the long involved plea to a great many gods. At intervals, horns blared and gongs rang out, but no one spoke or moved.

  At last the head priest let out a shriek that nearly matched the horns.

  “The dark, the dark!” he cried out. “We must light the dark!”

  Other priests shoved the prisoners forward. They struggled, twisted, but the priests forced them to their knees. In the glittering torchlight silver swords flashed up and swung down. The dead Meradan fell forward, their heads dangling from strips of skin and spine, as blood gushed. The bronze horns screamed over and over as the priests lifted the bodies and placed them on the altar. Ranadar stepped forward and flung his torch into the firewood.

  The assembled crowd waited, gasping for breath, as the flames flickered, nearly died, then caught with an uprush of fire. The gongs clanged and clashed as the assembly let out its collective breath in a sigh of relief. The torchbearers hurried forward in long lines and began to cast their torches into the blaze.

  Rhodorix looked toward the east. Although the stone walls of the fortress blocked the horizon, he could see the faint first silver of dawn. The stars were beginning to disappear at the sun’s first lighting. Well, there! he thought. It’s back for another year.