by Jo Clayton
He loomed over her, leaned down; very gently, a feather’s touch wouldn’t be softer, he brushed his thumb across her mouth. “Speak thou,” he murmured. “What have you done and how? Why have you done it?”
She struggled to resist, but it was like being caught in the river, carried on without effort on her part. The story tumbled out of her: Tre’s peril, Harra’s Legacy, the Cave of the Chained God, Toma and the medal, Daniel Akamarino, the Blue Seamaid and all that happened there, what Brann organized to get her home unseen (she fell silent a moment and stared as he burst out laughing. I stopped watching, he said to her, before any of that went on. All that effort wasted), the Chained God’s command to come to Isspyrivo, take the chains off him, return with him to destroy the talisman that Settsimaksimin was using agairist a god.
When she finished and fell silent, he brushed her lips a second time with his thumb, stepped back. He pointed at the bench. “Bring that. There.” He pointed at the center of a complex of silver lines, a five-pointed star inside a circle with writing and other symbols scattered about it, within the pattern and without; he didn’t wait to see her do it, but whipped away, robe billowing about him as he strode to another corner; he came back with a long, decorated staff. He looked her over, nodded with satisfaction, tapped the silver circle with the butt of the staff. The wire began to glow. “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t cross the line. There will be dangerous things beyond the pentacle; you can’t see them and you don’t want to feel them. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
He stopped beside a second small pentacle, activated that, moved to the largest. There was an odd looking chair in it, big, made from a dark wood with tarry streaks in it, his chair, even before he settled into it, its shape suggested him, she could see him sitting in it, his massive arms resting in the carved hollows in the chair’s arms, his long strong feet fitting in the hollows of the footboard. He stepped across the dull gray lines, smoothed his hands over his hair, tucking in the short straggles that made a black and pewter halo for his face. With a complicated pass of his flattened hand, he wiped the wrinkles and dust smears from his robe, then he tapped the pentacle to life, climbed into the chair and settled. himself into a proper majesty, the staff erect in its holders, rising over him, its wire inlay catching the light in slippery watery gleams. He turned his head to look directly at her (she was on his right off to one side), grinned and winked at her as if to say aren’t I fine, then faced forward and began intoning a chant, his voice filling the room with sound and beats of sound until her body throbbed in time with the pulses.
“PA OORA DELTHI NA HES HEYLIO PO LIN LEGO IMAN PHRO NYMA MEN
NE NE MOI GALANAS
TRE TRE TRAGO MEN.”
And as he chanted, he moved his hands in strange and disconcerting patterns; something about the gestures stirred her insides in ways that both terrified and fascinated her. She felt the power surging from him; in spite of her fear she found herself swept up in it, exulting in it (though she felt sick and shamed when she realized that)-it was like being outside, walking through an immense towering thunderstorm, winds teasing at her hair and clothes, thunder rumbling in her blood, lightning striding before her.
She gasped, jumped to her feet though she didn’t quite dare cross the lines. Tre” was in the other small pentacle, curled up on his side, deeply asleep, his fist pressed against his mouth. “What are you going to do to-him,” she cried. “What are you going to do?”
Settsimaksimin sighed, the talisman glimmering as it rose and fell with the rise and fall of his chest. “Put him where his god can’t reach him, – he said; the residue of the chant made a derni chant of the simple words. “If I kill him, child, there’ll only be another taking his place, another and another until I have to kill everyone. So what’s the point. He’ll sleep and sleep and sleep…” He turned his head and smiled at her. “.
until you and only you, young Kori, until YOU come and touch him awake.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wait. Watch.- He straightened, closed his eyes a moment to regain his concentration, then began another chant.
“ME LE O I DETH O I ME LE OUS E THA NA TOL/ S
HIR RON TO RON DO MO PE LOOMAY LOOMAY DOMATONE
IDO ON TES HAY DAY THONE.”
His gestures began as wrapping turns. A shimmer formed about Tr6’s body, solidified into a semitransparent crystal; Trd was encased in that crystal like a fly in amber. The gestures changed, fluttered, ended as he brought his hands together in a loud clap. The crystal cube vanished.
“He has gone to his god,” Settsimaksimin said. “In a way.” He got to his feet, stood leaning against the chair looking wearier than death. “He is in the Cave of Chains. If you can get yourself there, Kori, all you have to do is touch the block of crystal. It will melt and the boy will wake. No one else can do this. No one, god or man. Only you. Do you understand?”
“No. Yes. What to do, yes. Why?”
He reached his arms high over his head, stretched, groaned with the popping of his muscles. “Incentive, Kori.” He dragged his hand across his face. “I want to save something out of this mess. I can’t save myself. Cheonea? All I can do is hope the seeds I’ve planted have sent down roots strong enough to hold it together when MY hand is gone. You’ve destroyed me, Kori. If I were the monster you think me, I’d kill you right now and send your souls to the worst hell I could reach. Instead…” he chuckled, but there was no humor in the sound, “I’m going to pay for your education.” He resettled himself in the chair, worked a lever on the side so that the back tilted at an angle and the footboard moved out. He was still mostly upright, but not so dominant as he had been.
A chant filled the room again, his voice was vibrant and wonderfully alive, none of the exhaustion she’d seen was present in that sound; power, discipline, elegance, beauty, those were in that sound. He was a stranger and her enemy, but she felt a deeper kinship with him now than with any of her blood kin. She felt like weeping, she felt empty, she felt the loss of something splendid she’d never find again. If it hadn’t been Tr6, if only it hadn’t been Tre.
The smaller pentacle filled again. A tall woman, gray hair dressed in a soft knot, a black silk robe tied loosely over a white shift. Thin face, austere, rather flat. Long narrow chocolate eyes, not friendly at the moment, were they ever? Thin mouth tucked into brackets. She glared at Settsimaksimin, then she relaxed and she smiled, affection for the man showing in her face. The chocolate eyes narrowed yet more into inverted smiles of their own. “You!” she said. Her voice had a magic like his, silvery, singing. “Why is it always the middle of the night?”
Settsimaksimin laughed, swung his hand toward Kori. “I’ve a new student for you, Shahnfien Shere. Take her and teach her and keep her out of my hair.”
“That bad, eh? You interest me.”
“Thought I might.”
“You paying for her or what?”
“I pay. Would I bring you here else? I know you, love.” He shifted position, looked sleepily amused, his real weariness nowhere visible. Kori watched with astonishment, fear, hope, reluctant respect. “A hundred gold a year, with a bonus given certain conditions. She’s…” he frowned at Kori, “… thirteen or thereabouts, ten years bed, board and training.” He ran his eyes over the sleeping shift that fell in heavy folds around her thin body. ‘And clothing.”
“For you, old friend, just for you, I’ll do it.”
“HAIL” A rumbling chuckle. “She’d do you proud, Shahntien.”
“You mentioned a bonus.”
“Young Kori, her name is Kari Piyolss, she isn’t too happy about leaving home right now. She’s clever, she’s got more courage than sense and she’s stubborn. The first time she tries to get away from you, whip her. If she tries twice and you catch her at it, kill her. That’s what the bonus is for. You hear that, Kori?”
Kori pressed her lips together, closed her hands into fists. “Yes.”
“You see, Shahntien? Alread
y plotting.”
“I see. How clever is she? Enough to stay quiet and learn until she thinks she knows how to avoid being caught?”
“Oh yes. I’m counting on you, Shahntien, to prove cleverer still and keep her there the whole ten years.”
“Take her now?”
“In a moment.” He shifted to face Kori. “Apply yourself, young Kori. Remember what I told you. Your brother will sleep forever unless you come for him, so be very very sure you know what you’re about.”
“Now?” Kori drove her nails into the soft wood of the bench. “What about…”
“Nothing here matters to you any longer, child. Stay well.”
A gesture, a polysyllabic word and she was in the other pentacle tight up against the woman who put a thin strong arm about her shoulders. A gesture, a word and both of them were elsewhere.
Maksim carried the bench back to the corner, piled the scattered scrolls on it again. He straightened, stretched, rubbed at his chest. Grimacing, he crossed to the wallcoffer, poured out some of the cordial and gulped it down, followed it with a swallow of brandy to wash away the taste. He leaned against the wall and waited for the strengthener to take hold, then snapped to his bedroom to get the rest he so urgently needed.
12. Uphill And Nasty.
SCENE: Black sand sloping up to an anonymous sort of scraggly brush. High tide, just turning, foam from the sea, white lace on black velvet, out on the dark water, white sails dipping swiftly below the horizon. Isspyrivo a black cone directly ahead, twice the height of the other peaks. It is several folds back from the shore, perhaps fifty miles off.
Brann shoved a hand through her hair. Daniel was a little drunk again. A thousand maledictions on old ‘llingjii’s head, wishing that pair on me. One of them sneaking whiffs of dreamdust, the other afloat in a winy sea. She began pacing restlessly beside the retreating surf, small black crabs scuttling away from her feet into festoons of stinking seawrack; every few steps she stopped to kick black grit out of her sandals. What now? We should get started for the mountain. Walk? She snorted. Take a whip to get this party marching. Ahzurdan had performed nobly during the attack, they owed their lives to him, perhaps even the children did, but she couldn’t be sure he’d come through next time. Half an hour ago, when she went to fetch him, the smell of hot dust in that cabin was strong enough to choke a hog. The young thief was right, once you smelled that stink you didn’t forget it. He was sitting on the sand now looking vaguely out at the vanishing sails of the Skia Hetaira, probably he regretted getting off her Daniel drifted over to him, offered the wineskin. Danny
One stared at Danny Two, dislike hardening the vagueness out of his face, then waved him off. Like a bratty child, not the man he was supposed to be, Daniel kicked sand on the sorceror and wandered away to sit on a chunk of lava, one of several coughed up the last time Isspyrivo hiccupped.
Brann sighed and thought longingly of Taguiloa and the dance troupe, there was much to be said for the energizing qualities of ambition. She watched the changechildren playing with the sand; its blackness seemed to fascinate them. Jaril and Yaril were appreciably taller and more developed after the battle with Amortis. She suspected that some of the fire pouring through them had lingered long enough to be captured and it triggered that spurt of growth. What that meant was something Brann didn’t want to think about right now. Going god-hunting to feed young adults, yaaah! She shook her head, waved the children to her.
“Jay, Yaro, if we’re going to get that pair up the mountain, we’d better have transport.” She looked from one scowling face to the other, sighed again. “No argument, kids. Chained God wants them, Chained God is going to get them. Besides, we need Ahzurdan. Our fighting isn’t done. Maksim’s not about to lay down and let us dance on his bones.”
Jaril wrinkled his nose. “You want horses? These Valens seem to run more to mules.”
She frowned at Daniel Akamarino and Ahzurdan. “Mules might be a good idea, they’ve got more sense than horses. Probably got more sense than the pair that’ll be riding them. Ahh…” She chewed on her lip a moment, rubbed at her back. “See what you can do. We should have two, preferably three mounts. Be as quiet about it as you can, one thing we don’t need is a posse of angry copers hunting mule thieves. Um. Dig out three gold, leave them behind to calm the tempers of the owners.”
The children hawkflew away, powerful wings digging great holes in the air. Brann watched them until they melted into the night, then she walked a short way off to sit on a chunk of lava. You there, Maksim? You sitting there working out how to hit us next? She shivered at the thought, then she stared angrily at the empty air overhead. Ariels circling about up there, looking at us, listening to us, carrying tales back to the sorceror sitting like a spider in his web of air. I wonder how fast they fly. Never thought to ask Ahzurdan. Doesn’t really matter, I suppose. Shuh! makes my skin itch to have things I can’t see watching me. They can’t read what’s in my head, at least there’s that. Or can they? Ahzurdan says they can’t. Do I trust him enough to believe him? I suppose I do. What am I going to do when this is over? Can’t go back to the pottery. Arth Slya? Not as long as I have to keep feeding the children. I don’t know. Slya’s Fire, I hate this kind of drifting. A goal. Yes. A goal. Bargain with the Chained God. He needs me or he wouldn’t be weaving all this foolery to get me to him. If he wants my help, he can see the children changed again, let them feed on sunlight not the soul-stuff of men. Set them free from me. What if he says he can’t do it? Do I have to believe him? The talisman, yes, that talisman Maksim has, it compels Amortis, if I learned to use it, could I compel Red. Slya to undo what she has done? And if not that one, perhaps another? Ahzurdan said there were twelve of them. Which one would twist your tail, Hot Slya? She swung around and examined the featureless cone of Isspyrivo, black against the deep purple of the predawn sky. A fire mountain. When I was a child, I thought Slya lived solely in Tincreal. Not so, not so, she’s in earthfire everywhere. Shall I sing you awake, my Slya? What side would you be on if I did? Shuh! Boring, this going round and round, piling ignorance on ignorance. She sprang to her feet. “Daniel. Daniel Akamarino. Play a song for me.” She dropped to one knee, unbuckled a sandal, balanced on one foot, kicked the sandal flying, then dealt with the other and jumped up. “Like this.-She whistled a tune she remembered from Arth Slyan fetes on the Dance Floor by the Galarad Oak, began swinging in circles on the drying sand. “Something something something like this. Play Daniel play for me play for the ariels up there spying play for the wind and the water and the dawn that’s coming soon. Play for me Daniel I want to dance.”
Daniel Akamarino laughed, took out his recorder. He whistled a snatch of the tune. “Like that?”
“Like that.” She kicked one leg up, grimaced as the cloth of her trousers limited her range. As Daniel began to play, she stripped off her trousers, kicked them away. Ahzurdan scowled, pulled the broad collar of his robe up about his ears and sat hunched over, staring out to sea. At first she moved tentatively, seeking to recover the body memory of what she’d done with Taguiloa, then she flung herself into the dance, words and worry stripped from her head; she existed wholly in the moment with only the frailest of feelers into the immediate future, enough to let her give shape to the shift of her body.
Finally she collapsed in a laughing panting heap and listened to the music laugh with her and the water whisper as it retreated. In the east there was a ghost light along the peaks and the snowtop of Isspyrivo had a pale shimmer that seemed to come from within. She lay until the chill in the damp sand struck up through her body and the light in the east was more than a promise.
She rolled over, got onto her knees, then pushed onto her feet. As she stood brushing herself off, she heard the sound of hooves on the sand, felt the tingling brush as the children let her know they were coming. “Transport,” she said. “We’ll be leaving for the mountains fifteen twenty minutes no more.”
Yaril and Jaril brought three mules, two bays and a blue r
oan. They were saddled and bridled, with water-skins, long braided ropes tied on, a half a sack of seed-grain snugged behind the blue roan’s saddle. Brann raised her brows. “I see why you took so long.”
“Town was pretty well closed down.” Jaril’s eyes flicked toward the silent brooding figure of the sorceror, turned back to Brann. “We decided since we were leaving three golds behind and one of them could buy ten mules and a farm to keep them on and since we didn’t know how well they,” a jerk of his thumb toward Daniel and Ahzurdan, “could ride, we might as well make it as easy as we could. We raided a stable and the gear was all there, no problem, so why not.”
While the children flew overhead keeping watch and Ahzurdan stood aside pulling himself together and rebuilding his defenses, Brann and Daniel Akamarino distributed the gear and supplies among the three mules and roped the packs in place. By the time they were finished the tip of the sun was poking around the side of Isspyrivo, a red bead growing like a drop of blood oozing from a pinprick.
Following the lead of the two hawks they wound through brushy foothills for the better part of the morning, a still, hot morning spent in the clouds of dust and dying leaves kicked up by the plodding mules. They stopped briefly at noon for a meal of dried meat and trail bars washed down with strong-tasting lukewarm water from the skins. Even Daniel wasn’t drinking any of Tungjii’s wine, he was too hot, sweaty and sore to appreciate it (though he did go behind a bush, drop his trousers and smooth a handful of it over his abraded thighs).
During the morning Ahzurdan had been braced to fend off an attack from Maksim. Nothing happened. He prowled about the small grassy space where they stopped to eat, watching ariels swirl invisibly over them coming and going in that endless loop between them and Settsimaksimin. Nothing happened.
They started on. With Yaril plotting the route and Jaril on wide ranging guard swings, they climbed out of the hills and the rattling brush into the mountain forests, trees growing taller, the way getting steeper and more difficult as they rose higher and higher above sea level.
