Touched by the Gods

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  It would seem that he was not going to escape the burden as easily as he had hoped. If the oracles had named no one else, then he was the champion – the gods did not lie. And if he was the champion, his duty lay here – or with the army on the eastern plain, but at any rate not back home in Grozerodz.

  “Some folks do say,” Darsmit remarked, after swallowing another bite of chicken, “that Apiris must surely know the champion's identity, but that he refuses to reveal it, because he does not approve of the gods' choice. Gharman, my brother-in-law-to-be, won't venture an opinion either way on that idea.”

  “Would the Archpriest dare defy the gods that way?” Malledd asked.

  Darsmit shrugged. “Who knows, in these godforsaken times? Some say that Apiris' impieties are the very reason the gods abandoned us! Certainly, it wasn't until Bonvas died and Apiris took office that the oracles stopped talking.”

  Malledd frowned, wondering who this “some“ might be. He glanced out the easternmost window of the apprentice hall; two small brownish moons were in sight, moons he didn't recognize.

  The motives of the gods were certainly questionable in recent years. Malledd wondered whether there had ever before been a time when they were so inscrutable. How, he wondered, had he had the misfortune to be born at such a time, and worse, to have this dubious honor of alleged divine favor bestowed upon him?

  Why was he here, learning to make swords, instead of home with his wife and children?

  Or if he were the true champion, why was he here in Seidabar when the threat to the Empire lay hundreds of miles to the east?

  It didn't seem right, either way.

  Malledd tossed aside the chicken bones and got to his feet. He was debating whether to find his way outside for a bit of fresh air, or to stay and chat with Darsmit, or to head back to his forge and get started on the afternoon's labors, when a sound from outside the common room door caught his attention. Someone was arguing out there – and one of the voices was female.

  Women were scarce in the Armory; almost all smiths and soldiers were male, and very few people other than smiths and soldiers had any business there. Those who were married generally lived elsewhere and came to the Armory to work, and their wives rarely visited. A female voice was an attention-catching oddity. Furthermore, this voice was familiar. For half an instant Malledd wondered if it was Darsmit's sister Berai, but then he recognized it.

  “Anva?” He shoved aside the bench he had been sitting on, pushed away from the table, and charged toward the door.

  The bench went whirling and slammed against the hearth rail. Darsmit froze in astonishment, a drumstick between his teeth, as his dining companion suddenly dashed away, almost upsetting the table in the process – and the table had been built for the use of a dozen smiths, and smiths tended to be large. That table was no delicate little gewgaw.

  Malledd threw open the door, letting in a rush of cold air – the Armory was remarkable for being stifling hot around the forges but staying cold elsewhere – and found a knot of people in the corridor outside, arguing loudly. Three big men – not Malledd's size, but big – were standing a dozen feet away with their backs to him, facing three women. Two of the men wore the leather aprons of smiths, and the third the red and gold of a soldier; the dark-haired, medium-sized woman at the front wore a good sheepskin coat and a fur cap, while the other two wore white woolen cloaks over the white robes of priestesses.

  Malledd recognized the woman in the sheepskin coat instantly.

  “Anva!” he called. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked past the men at him.

  “Malledd!” she said. “There you are!” She pushed between the two burly smiths and ran toward him. The men parted, allowing her to pass – which was a good thing for them, because Malledd met Anva halfway, and had they declined to make way he would have probably injured them in getting at her.

  Neither of them bothered to say anything for the next few minutes.

  The smiths turned and saw Malledd, Anva wrapped in his arms; one cleared his throat. Malledd and Anva paid no attention.

  The smiths looked at one another.

  “Well,” one of them said, “I guess that must be who she was looking for.”

  “I'm sure he knows the rules,” the other said.

  “Then there's no need for us to stay around,” the first agreed.

  With a shrug, they turned away and trotted down the hallway.

  The soldier did not; he stood, watching Malledd and Anva, and waited.

  The priestesses stepped up on either side of the soldier and also watched and waited. One of them began blushing.

  Behind Malledd, Darsmit came to the door and watched.

  Finally, Malledd and Anva released one another, gasping for breath, and stood staring into each other's eyes.

  “Excuse me,” the soldier said.

  Malledd turned his head to look at him questioningly.

  “I'm afraid this woman entered the Armory without permission,” the soldier said. “While you obviously know her, I must still ask her to leave.”

  “We'll both go,” Malledd said, before Anva could object. “We can talk somewhere else.”

  “Very good. Shall I escort you to the door?”

  “If you like,” Malledd said.

  “Malledd!” Darsmit called. “What's going on? Should I come?”

  Malledd shook his head. “Finish your lunch,” he said. “I'll be back later.”

  Darsmit hesitated, then turned back into the common room.

  The others – Malledd, Anva, the soldier, and the two priestesses – made their way down the corridor, down the stairs, and out through the maze of anterooms and passageways onto the street. The soldier then returned to the Armory and left the four of them standing in the street.

  Normal traffic had churned the light snowfall from a triad before into the mud of the street, but streaks of dirty white still adorned the stone fronts of the buildings on either side. Because of the cold there were few people on the street, and most of those were bundled up and hurrying quickly to wherever they were bound. The wind gusted occasionally, tearing bits of sooty snow from cornices and windowsills and chilling exposed hands and faces.

  Malledd watched the soldier go, then remarked, “Seems like a nice fellow.”

  “That unpleasant little man at the front door sent him after us, when I wouldn't wait while he sent messengers all over the place,” Anva said.

  “Ah,” Malledd said. He was quite familiar with the officious doorkeeper at the Armory entrance. He glanced at the priestesses. “Are these who Vadeviya sent to Grozerodz?”

  “She is,” Anva said, pointing to the taller one. “Her name is Bezida. The other one, Esgora, is from the Great Temple here in Seidabar.”

  Bezida was plump and dark-haired; she smiled. Esgora was short and fair, and bowed slightly at the mention of her name.

  Malledd nodded a polite acknowledgment of the introduction, then asked, “Where are the children?”

  “Back in Grozerodz, where they belong, with your parents and Uncle Sparrak and another priestess, Zadai. Malledd, can we find somewhere warm?” She shivered.

  “Of course!” Malledd looked around, then placed his hands on Anva's shoulders and turned her toward a nearby tavern. “We'll get something to drink. Have you eaten?”

  Twenty minutes later the four of them were seated around a small table near a window in the nameless tavern across the street from Lord Graush's palace. The three women had been fed, wiping out Malledd's apprentice allowance for the triad; Malledd himself, having already eaten, had settled for a little bread and cheese and two pints of golden ale.

  “Now,” he said, thumping his mug down, “what are you doing here?”

  “I came to fetch you home, of course,” Anva said as she took a final bite of winter apple and dropped the core on her plate. “Baranmel's Triad is just eight days away – you can be home with your children to celebrate, instead of here, living in that crowded, drafty
pile of stone they call an Armory.”

  “But I haven't finished,” Malledd said. “I'm training to be a swordsmith. The army will need swords for the spring campaign.”

  “You can make swords back in Grozerodz, if that's all it is.”

  “They need swords here,” Malledd protested.

  “And I need you back in Grozerodz!”

  Malledd stared at her wordlessly for a moment.

  “It's not swordsmithing that's keeping you here,” Anva said.

  Malledd glanced at the two priestesses, who had both stayed remarkably silent so far.

  “They know who you are,” Anva said. “Bezida found out from Zadai, and Zadai found out back in Biekedau – she says she met you in the temple porch there, when you showed that letter of yours to somebody. Besides, Malledd, they've been living with me in Grozerodz. Everyone in Grozerodz knows, you know that. It would have slipped sooner or later.”

  Malledd frowned slightly, and pointed a thumb at the other. “And Esgora?” he asked.

  “I told her,” Anva replied.

  Malledd frowned more deeply.

  “Malledd, if you wanted to keep it a secret, you should have stayed home, not come here,” Anva said. “Everyone back in Grozerodz is talking about you, you know. Oh, it's mostly whispers when I'm around, since they all know you didn't want anyone to talk about it, but really, Malledd, they think you're the divine champion, and you went off to the war! Of course they're going to talk about it! They're all waiting for news of you, waiting to hear that you've lopped off this Olnamian wizard's filthy head.”

  “I came to make swords,” Malledd growled.

  “You came because that disgusting old Vadeviya convinced you it was your duty,” Anva retorted.

  “It was my duty to come make swords,” Malledd insisted.

  “Nonsense!” Anva snapped. “You think you're the divine champion, and so does Vadeviya, and that's why you're both here. That's why I have these priestesses following me around, guarding me and babysitting our children and running my errands – because Vadeviya thinks you're the champion. I asked him, Malledd – he's still at the Great Temple here, you know. He's the one who told me to look for you at the Armory. I went to Biekedau, and Bezida made one of the magicians send a message, and I found out that you and Vadeviya were both still in Seidabar, and I came to fetch you home.”

  “Maybe Vadeviya thinks I'm the champion,” Malledd said, “but nobody else here does – including me. They all think Lord Duzon is.”

  “I've heard of him,” Anva admitted. “He's captain of the Company of Champions, isn't he?”

  Malledd nodded. “If I thought I was really the divine champion, wouldn't I be out there in Drievabor with that company, instead of here in the Armory?”

  “So you don't think you are? You think Mezizar lied, the day you were born? You think the high priest's letter is a fraud?”

  Malledd hesitated, then drained the last few drops from his mug before answering.

  “I don't know,” he said, staring into his empty mug. “No one else has any stories about oracles, or letters from high priests. I've been asking. Lord Duzon sounds like a fine man, and I expect he'll be a hero, but that doesn't mean he's the chosen of the gods.” He looked up and met Anva's eyes. “Maybe nobody is the gods' chosen any more.”

  Bezida looked shocked; Esgora managed to retain her composure, but Malledd could see, from the corner of his eye, a subtle shift in her expression. She was obviously listening just as closely.

  “That could be,” Anva agreed.

  Malledd stared at her, then asked, “Anva, do you think I'm the divine champion?”

  “I don't know,” Anva replied. “I knew you'd ask that, so I've been trying to decide – I've been trying to decide for years, ever since we were first betrothed. And I can't. I just don't know. Sometimes I see you at work, or with the other men, and you're so big and splendid that I think you must be more than an ordinary man, but then other times... and there are the stories about Lord Duzon, and why would the gods choose someone in a quiet little place like Grozerodz, if they really chose anyone... Oh, I don't know.”

  Malledd smiled gently. “Do you think I want to be the divine champion?”

  “No,” she said instantly.

  “So I'm not here because I'm seeking glory, am I? I'm just trying to do what's right.”

  “But how do you know it's right? We want you home, Malledd. The children miss you. I miss you.”

  Malledd's throat tightened. For a moment words failed him. He looked out the window to his right, unable to meet Anva's eyes. He reached out to touch the brass-covered leading between the panes; it was cold to the touch and wet with condensation, and he drew a glistening line of moisture down the brass.

  “I miss you, too,” he said at last, turning back to face his wife. “Maybe... maybe you could come here? Bring the children here to Seidabar?”

  “Bring...?” She looked out the window at the windblown street and the grey stone buildings. “Here? Where would we live, in that horrible Armory with you?”

  Esgora cleared her throat. “My lady, I'm certain we could find room in the temple.”

  Anva stared at her, horror-stricken.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I couldn't live anywhere in this... this place. It's crowded and dirty and hard and ugly, and it stinks.”

  “You haven't seen – ” Malledd began.

  “I've seen enough!” Anva said sharply, cutting him off. “I'm not going to bring the children here. I want you to come home with me, Malledd!” She slapped her hand on the table for emphasis.

  “I'm not going to, as long as Rebiri Nazakri is a threat to the Empire,” Malledd replied mildly. “I'm sorry, Anva. I love you very much, and I miss you, but I can't go home yet.”

  “Why not? I've heard the news from the temple magicians – that wizard hasn't come any closer to Seidabar in a dozen triads! Maybe he's not coming!”

  “He's holed up for the winter, Anva,” Malledd said patiently. “He's in a village called Uinaguem with his army, three hundred miles east of here, waiting for the snow to melt. The New Magicians have flown over and seen it. He's there, and in the spring he'll come here – or try to, anyway.”

  “How do you know that?” Anva asked desperately. “Maybe he won't! Maybe he'll freeze, or starve, or his army will desert him.”

  “And maybe he won't. If he dies, or his army disbands, we'll hear about it quickly enough, and I'll come straight home. But if they march on Seidabar, and Lord Kadan's army can't stop them, my place is here.” He hesitated, then smiled and added, “Making swords.”

  “You do think you're the champion,” Anva accused.

  “I've been told all my life that I am,” Malledd agreed. “I'm not sure – but yes, I guess I do think so.” He was rather surprised at his own words, but all the same, he recognized them for the truth.

  “Then why aren't you on your way to that village, whatever it's called? Why aren't you at least in Drievabor?”

  “Uinaguem. Because I'm not sure. Besides, what would I do there? Walk up to Rebiri Nazakri and order him to surrender? I may be the chosen of the gods, but I'm not a god myself, and nobody ever said the champions were immortal.”

  “So what will you do here?”

  “Make swords.”

  “Ooh! You're impossible.”

  “Stubborn, anyway. But so are you.”

  “You won't come home?”

  “No. You won't stay?”

  “No.”

  “Not a single night?”

  Anva's mouth quirked into a smile.

  “I didn't say that,” she said. “I promised I'd be home by Baranmel's Triad. If it doesn't snow again... well, I can certainly stay one night.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Aldassi held his bag and staff up before him as he slid down the hard-packed snow into the shadowy porch – which hardly seemed like a porch, with the snow piled man-high on every side, like solid walls of white stone. He would have preferred
entering the inn through one of the upstairs windows, but the others insisted on keeping those tightly shuttered.

  He couldn't blame them, really.

  He glanced at the ice-lined opening that connected the inn to the network of tunnels that linked the whole village together, then stamped across the porch, shaking the snow from his clothes and sending up swirls of glittering white powder. At the door of the inn the snow was only an inch or two deep – but even here, sheltered by a good solid roof and surrounded by drifts, the stone pavement was covered in snow. There was nowhere they could escape it.

  At least in Seidabar the streets were kept clear. When the snows had swept down out of the north, half a season before, Aldassi had suggested using the nightwalkers to dig out the village, and for the first few storms the undead had cooperated, but now they were all frozen stiff and buried under ten feet of snow.

  The latch was frozen again; Aldassi transferred his sack to his other hand, then pointed his staff and let a tendril of golden light lick out, melting the ice from the door and eerily illuminating the snowed-in porch. Then he lifted the latch and swung open the door.

  The thick stink of a hundred unwashed men jammed into far too small a space rolled out at him. Every time he left on one of his father's errands and then returned, the stench seemed worse; he wasn't sure whether it really was worse each time, or whether his memory failed to retain its true horror. He took a deep breath – the smell would only be worse if he waited – and stepped inside.

  A lone lantern flickered dimly on a hook in the ceiling, a few orange coals glowed on the hearth, and thin grey winter daylight seeped in through the upper portions of shuttered windows; otherwise the room was awash in thick shadows, its occupants mere outlines in the gloom. The glow of his staff, when he swung it inside, was the brightest light to be seen.

  “Speak your name,” a voice hissed in Olnami from close beside him, and even through his cloak, jacket, and tunic he felt the tip of a knife pressed against his side.

  “Aldassi Nazakri,” he said. “You know me, Hirini Abaradi.”