by Carol Berg
I gave him a mug of soup that Nevya had left. His appetite was certainly revived. I couldn’t keep enough going down him. The Ezzarians might run him off just to keep him from devouring their food reserves.
“So what’s your plan?” said Aleksander, nudging me awake with his foot. I sat on the floor leaning against his bed. “You’re implacably dull these days, always dozing off, making me carry the whole conversation. Nothing about sorcery or demons or what a madman I am to imagine that you told me you could grow wings. What do you care about Derzhi military maneuvers or how Dmitri taught me to carry a sword? I think it’s time you told me a few things. About this Gala—”
“I just want us to be away from here,” I said, motioning him to silence. “We’ll find some place to hide until you can be rid of this curse.” Nevya was not in the guest house, but I had no confidence that we could speak without being overheard. There were ways. For the past three nights I had experienced a creeping dread, a cold itch running up my spine, a sensation quite familiar from demon battles when something nasty was ready to pop out from a rock behind me. On that afternoon it had been worse than ever.
“Maybe the wretched thing will just go away. It could do that, couldn’t it? If the demons lost interest or something? Thought I was well out of the way? I know it’s been better the last couple of days.” Even as he said it, the color drained from his face. He slammed his eyes shut, but not before I saw the wild panic that told me he was once again viewing the world through the eyes of a beast.
I gave him time for the terrible event to pass, then shook my head. “I can’t be sure, my lord. But I doubt it. I wish I could tell you differently.”
Whether it was his injury while in the form of the shengar, or my taking him across the Weaver’s boundary while he was changing, or some other, unexplainable variance in the demon working, his enchantment had taken an ominous turn. It seemed to require no trigger at all. He kept experiencing random “slippage,” where one sense or one limb would transform and the rest of his body would not. I wondered if he was ever truly free of the shengar anymore. I had examined him that morning with my reawakening senses ... and I had been horrified at the damage. His soul was being eaten away by darkness, as iron is eaten away by the damp, leaving ragged, brittle edges that could disintegrate at a touch. I could not imagine the torment of his condition ... or what slight change might cause his last defenses to fail. We were running out of time.
I didn’t know whether it was fear of Aleksander’s disintegration or some other sense that had me in such a state of anxiety that day. I stood up and peered through the open shutters. A group of small children were playing tag in the marshy field beside the river, happily trouncing each other into the mud. Three women were coming out of the Weaver’s house, carrying rolls of colored cloth. A boy drove a small flock of sheep over the rise in the road. It had been a beautiful day, warm and windless, birds twittering the message that perhaps spring had come at last to this high meadow. Peaceful.
I could not sit still. I shifted my senses and found no enchantments save the ordinary ones I would expect. To keep the water clean. To prevent vermin from invading a house so little used. To make it tight against the cold.
“What is it, Seyonne? You’re as nervous as a squire on the eve of his first battle.”
“I wish I knew.” I moved to the back door and watched a hawk dive for a mouse that had finally braved the weather to come out of his winter’s hiding.
“It seems strange that no one comes here. The man to deliver the water. The woman that brings food. That’s all. The healing woman doesn’t even come very often anymore.”
“The Queen has told them her decision. They won’t do anything to encourage you to stay.”
He didn’t answer, and when I glanced over my shoulder to see if he’d fallen asleep, I saw instead that his left arm had shifted itself into the limb of the shengar. Aleksander was staring at the grotesque appendage in horror and disgust. “Holy Athos ...”
“Don’t think of it, my lord. Think of something else. Tell me ... tell me of Zhagad. I’ve never seen it, though I’ve heard it is the most beautiful city in the world. And not only Derzhi say it.”
Aleksander closed his eyes and shook his head. I wasn’t sure if he was in too much pain to speak again or if he was afraid that nothing would come out but the shengar’s scream.
“Then, I’d best tell you something to keep you interested.” The transformation was not reversing itself quickly, as was the usual case. I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about it, either. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you a bit of history about the war against the demons.”
I dared not tell him anything of importance. I trusted Aleksander, but I knew how thin was our hope to save him from the demons. Whatever I had said otherwise, whatever Ysanne had told the Prince, there was only one living Ezzarian who had ever had power enough to deal with an enchantment as deep, as virulent, as Aleksander’s. And I was not ready. Not yet.
Chapter 28
It had taken two hours for Aleksander’s arm to return to normal. He was unable to eat after that. When I offered him a cup of stewed barley and a honey-laden biscuit, he said they smelled rank and disgusting.
“My lord, you must regain your strength,” I said.
“I told you, I’ll have none of it!” he roared, then smashed the cup from my hand, splattering the hot stuff all over me. I jumped up, and by the time I had wiped the mess from my breeches, the Prince was curled into a knot, his arms thrown over his head. “Make me sleep, Seyonne. Bash my head with a rock if nothing else will do it.”
I thought I might have to do that very thing. It took three times the normal sleeping draught to get him quiet. By the time the Weaver’s lamp was lit, he lay in the image of death. Only a hand on his chest could detect any movement. I had to convince Galadon to help me do something, or we were going to lose him.
Catrin came at the appointed hour, and I argued with myself over whether to leave the Prince. “He’s had a difficult evening,” I said, not expecting her to answer, as she had said no unneeded word to me for seven days. “I ought to stay with him. Our time might be better spent on figuring out how to help him.”
“If you stay, you will assure his ruin.” Her words echoed like the faint thunder rumbling over the mountains to the east. With quiverings of pink and silver the magnificent day was giving birth to a storm.
I stared at the short, slender young woman in dark green. “Are you a Seer, Catrin?” I had not considered that she might have melydda beyond the minor gifting of perception and mind-seeing needed by an investigator.
“No.” She stepped from the doorway onto the road. “If you’re going to continue what you’ve begun, then it must be now.”
A brilliant flash of lightning lit up her face, and I read such a range of emotion in that brief glimpse as to make a lie of her cool voice.
“What is it, Catrin? What are you afraid of?”
“Come or stay,” she said, and she hurried into the night toward the forest.
I went back into the guest house, made sure Aleksander was still sleeping, and laid another log on the fire against the possibility of a storm. Then I took out after Catrin, catching up to her at the edge of the trees. Before we passed beyond the boundary, I laid a hand on her arm. “Is your grandfather all right?” I had been so absorbed in my own dilemmas, I had given no thought to the toll our activities must be taking on Galadon.
“He’s waiting,” she said, firmly removing her arm from my grasp. “If you want to help the Prince, you must continue working at it. Come or stay.”
I went, vowing to get Galadon to help me decide what might give Aleksander more time. But I had no opportunity to speak to my mentor before we began. He was waiting beside the pool, his white hair lifted by the rising wind and his staff already pointing at the water. We started every evening with the purification. In the daytime hours I tried very hard to keep a portion of my mind focused on my training, to keep that bit of me free
of anxiety or curiosity. But inevitably I would lose my concentration as I watched Aleksander struggle with his grotesque enchantment. Galadon seemed to understand that the ritual helped me regain my focus.
That night when I came out, clean clothes were waiting for me on the rocks: tan breeches and perfectly fitting calf-high boots, a sleeveless shirt of white linen, and a cloak of gray wool. As I pulled on the shirt, I noticed that Catrin was nowhere to be seen. It was unusual, and somehow disconcerting. The first spatters of rain fell cold on my face.
Galadon motioned me to follow, and I settled my mind into emptiness as I walked the path behind him. It was a way we’d not traveled before, leading into a denser part of the forest, where the spreading firs were so thick they held off most of the rain. The muddy path wound upward, little patches of old snow gleaming dirty white in the faint light from Galadon’s hand. The rain brought out the perfume of the thawing earth and the ancient carpet of pine needles.
There was more disturbance to the night than the approaching storm. The air was ripe with sorcery. Even without shifting I could feel it. My breathing slowed as if an anvil rested on my chest; my skin quivered as if the boundaries of my body were the boundaries of the universe, and whatever lay beyond those boundaries was altogether different than it was before that night. Don’t think. Don’t guess. This is all part of your preparation. What comes, comes.
Firelight flickered through the trees ahead of us, but before I could see what manner of place lay there, Galadon stopped and handed me a strip of linen to bind my eyes. I thought nothing of it. He’d had me do it a number of times over the past days to make sure I could still function without sight. One never knew what might come in a demon battle. I would just pay closer attention to my other senses.
But this time he set me no puzzle, only used his stick to bid me follow him again. I listened to his steps. Slow and careful on the rocks and roots that protruded from the soft ground. His left hip was bothering him. I could hear it in his uneven step and in the slight hitch in his breathing when he would put weight on it. Curve slightly to the right. We were out of the trees. Rain drizzled on my head and shoulders, though not enough to soak the gray wool cloak.
Steps ... three ... and a flat stone floor. Galadon’s shuffling sandals echoed faintly, and no more rain fell on my head, so there was a roof. Walls, too, but not surrounding us entirely for I could still feel the rain-scented breeze. And the fire was there ... pine boughs ... and a few grains of jasnyr had been thrown in it, making the smoke sweet so it did not burn the eyes. We were in a temple! Instantly I could feel the five pairs of stone columns around me and the simple domed roof over my head. Somewhere the floor would be inlaid with mosaics depicting centuries of struggle with the demons. This one likely had the new chapter added—about the Derzhi conquest and the flight from Ezzaria.
This was an interesting variation of Galadon’s teaching. He was going to set me another puzzle, of course, and wanted to immerse me in the vision as if it were a real battle. I would watch the scene play out or perhaps make some attempt to do the fighting myself, then he would pull me out and quiz me on what I’d seen: the moves, the mistakes, the hidden meanings, the riddles that could be wrapped in the land or the weather or the structures or the inhabitants. Everything had meaning in the landscape of the human soul.
“Recite Ioreth.”
I bowed and settled myself on the floor, palms open and relaxed on my knees. I spoke the words of Ioreth’s Chant, part of a Warden’s preparation before going into battle.
“Again.”
I recited it again, this time trying to go beyond rote words, to ease myself into the rhythm, let them take me into a state of separation from the world. As if he knew I had gone as far as I could without melydda, Galadon took my hand and placed in it ... another hand ... slender, soft ...
The portal opened into blistering heat. The path was steady beneath my feet, and I stepped through instantly, curious to see what manner of riddle Galadon had set me. I stood on a rocky precipice under twin red suns, looking down on a landscape of death. Parched, cracked red earth stretched as far as I could see. Jagged pinnacles of rock jutted out of the caked land like grotesque game pieces. Orange clouds stained the horizon, and a screaming vulture dived through the air after ... what? I squinted into the hot glare, but couldn’t see the prey. Galadon would rail at me for missing it. I tried to banish such thoughts and immerse myself in the lesson.
Concentrate. See what lies here in this life-destroying heat. What is the meaning of the landforms, so harsh, so devoid of life, the sparse, tangled scrub that could never bloom in such desolation? What dangers lie hidden in the rocks or the smeared clouds? Is the vulture the enemy or is something else lurking, waiting for the warrior who will come?
The land trembled beneath my feet. Out on the seared plains several of the towering rock stacks toppled, raising clouds of red dust, and wide cracks opened in the land. My spine tightened with foreboding. Galadon was a master at creating practice illusions. I had died a thousand times in his creations, astonished to find myself still breathing when he pulled me out. But this one ... how was it possible that I could taste the faint traces of sulfur in the hot wind and feel the grit of sand between my teeth?
I needed to see what lay at the bottom of the cliffs on which I stood, but I could not convince myself to walk to the edge and peer downward. I would be too visible outlined against the orange sky. Foolish. This is an illusion like all the rest. Nothing more. He’s just convinced an Aife to help him, to make it more real. Yet I sank to my knees and crept across the hot rocks.
At the bottom of the cliff was a warren of rocks, sharp, dangerous spires reaching a quarter of the way up the cliff. It was impossible to penetrate the thick shadows between them. The flat light shifted subtly, and in an instant the shadows were gone and I could examine the deep clefts and crannies. Nothing moved. Yet there was something....
My hand slipped on the loose talus, and an edge of rock bit into it, cutting the skin, leaving a thin line of blood seeping from the cut. I stared at the blood. Touched it. Tasted it. In a vision you did not bleed—not blood that you could taste. What have you done, master?
Before I could reset my mind to consider that the place I stood was real, the dust haze far to my left parted to reveal a shimmering rectangle—a portal. A tiny figure stepped through, too distant for me to see his face, though I could hear his booming voice clearly. “I am the Warden, sent by the Aife, Scourge of Demons, to challenge you for this vessel. Hyssad! Begone!”
There! One of the stacks of rock in the shadows of the cliff moved, but there was no quaking of the earth to cause it. Did the Warden see it? A piercing glint of light from the warrior’s hand ... the knife. My right hand ached for the silver knife and my left for the smooth, palm-sized oval of the Luthen mirror—the artifact from our ancient past that could paralyze a demon by showing it its own reflection.
The warrior moved forward slowly. Hunting. Examining the landscape as I had done. Would he see the lurking danger? Would he locate the source of the demon music that grated on the soul like steel on glass? Was the warrior real, too, or was he some masterful creation of my mentor?
If he was real, then how was this possible? Two portals in the same soul. It was the Warden’s burden ... to be alone in the domain of evil. And how could I have come to such a place unprepared, without sharing in the Aife’s weaving that made the passage possible?
“I reject your challenge, vermin.” The voice echoed from the rocks, twisting my stomach with revulsion at the sound of it. “I claim this vessel for my own. Its food is rich and satisfies me beyond any I have tasted.”
The landscape shuddered. More vents gaped in the plain, spewing foul-smelling smoke. For an instant the sky darkened. With an explosive clap, a crack ripped through the rock where I lay prostrate. I rolled to the right, and when my gaze settled on the plain once again, the warrior and the monster were already engaged. How had it happened so quickly? Somewhere a torment
ed victim was screaming in agony at the wrenching horror in his head.
The monster had separated itself from the rocks that disguised it. It was red and lumpy, its shape that of a huge caterpillar, but with legs as thick as trees and huge paws at the end of each appendage. Its eyes were set into bony hollows, its neck ringed with jagged cartilage. The hide would be thick and tough; to find the vulnerable spot would require long and careful testing. Yet the Warden had already transformed the silver knife into a spear. Why a spear? What had he seen that I had missed? A spear, once thrown, is useless. You have to be sure. They had scarcely begun their battle.
The Warden dodged a blow from the monster’s bulbous paw. Gracefully, for such a large man. A very large man, I realized, considering the distance between us. Broad-shouldered. Tall. He feinted with the spear. A give and take of moves and parries. Slowly. Precisely. Like a dance where all the steps were known and practiced. After only a few exchanges, the monster rose up on its hind end, waving its six legs and bellowing in ear-shattering defiance. The Warden dodged another blow, then launched the spear. It lodged low in the creature’s belly. Green foulness spurted from the wound, slathering the warrior and the red dirt.
The land trembled when the beast toppled and lay still. Now, I thought, my tense body urging the man to hurry, to finish the deed before the moment was past, even while my mind wondered at the shape of the battle. Take it now. It must be now.
As if at my bidding the warrior raised his left hand high and a glare of brilliant silver shot from it as he spoke. “Hyssad, rai-kirah. Begone or die.”
Watch out! I flinched—for some reason thinking the man in danger, when he was clearly in control. With his right hand, the Warden wrenched the spear away, changed the weapon into a broadsword, and slashed the monster’s belly from its neck to its hind end, loosing its entrails that dried and shriveled instantly in the heat.
Then came a mind-ripping scream of fury as made a shengar’s cry no more than an infant’s whimper. Demons loathed the Luthen mirror. They could not resist looking at it, though they knew the consequences. Only in the instant their physical form was dead could you capture them with it, for only then would they see their demon aspect rather than the physical being. Timing was all.
