Tides of Darkness

by Judith Tarr

  He gave himself up to it. There was nothing else he could do. He let his body go slack, his limbs sprawl where they would. His mind held its center.

  He burst through darkness into blinding light. It stabbed him with blessed agony. It was so wonderful, so glorious, and so excruciating, that he dropped to the splendid stabbing of stones, and laughed until he wept.

  Something jabbed his ribs. It was not a stone. Those were under him, blissfully uncomfortable. This was alive: it thrust again, bruising several of his myriad bruises. He caught it, still blind with light, and wrenched it aside. The gasp at the other end, the grunt of a curse, told him what he had known when he closed fingers about it: it was a spearhaft, and there was a man gripping it.

  Men. He could see now, a little, through the streaming of tears: shadows against the light. They were human. They were small; Asaniansmall, lightly built and wiry. Their hair and eyes were dark, their skin reddish-bronze, rather like his own.

  They all were dressed in kilts, and they all had spears. The man who had brought him so rudely to his senses stood disarmed, staring at the point of his own spear, angled toward his heart.

  Daros lowered it slowly, grounded the butt of it, and used it as a crutch to lever himself to his feet. The spearmen fell back before him. The tallest came just to his shoulder.

  He had never towered before. It was an odd sensation; he was not sure that he liked it. Towering was for northerners. He was a plainsman; he was accustomed to being a tall man but not a giant.

  He resisted the urge to stoop. They were staring, but not, he realized, at his height. He shook his hair out of his face.

  The copper brightness of it made him pause, then smile wryly. Of course they would stare at that. Even plainsmen did, and they were born under the rule of red Gileni princes.

  This was not his world, even a remote corner of it. He could feel the strangeness underfoot, the heartbeat of earth that was never his own. The sun was very hot, and he was dressed for the roof of the world. He stripped off his woolen mantle, his coat of leather and fur, his tunic, his shirt, his fur-lined boots, and—with the flick of a glance at the men who watched—his leather breeches. Even the light trews felt like a burden, but he kept those. He did not know how modest men were here, nor would it do to offend before he had even uttered a greeting.

  He looked almost as battered as he felt. Bruises stained his skin along the ribs, down the shoulders and arms. One knee was a remarkable shade of purple, shading to livid as it ascended his thigh. He was not particularly lame on it, which was rather odd.

  He gathered his garments into a bundle and bound it with his belt, fastened his purse with its precious burden about his middle, and said politely, “Good day, sirs. Would any of you have a sip of water to spare?”

  The man he had disarmed had a half-full skin at his belt. He held it out, wordlessly. Daros bowed, smiled, sipped. He drank three swallows: far less than he wanted, but enough for courtesy, from the flicker of the man’s eyes. He bowed again and returned the waterskin to its owner.

  While Daros slaked his thirst, the man seemed to have reached a conclusion. “Tell me, lord, if you will,” he said. “Do you come from beyond the horizon?”

  Daros’ gaze followed his. The horizon was a jagged black line beyond a wilderness of sand and stone. The sky above it was a vivid, almost unbearable blue. A winged thing hung there, in shape like a hawk. With no thought at all, Daros lifted his hand.

  The hawk came down to it, plummeting out of the sky, braking with a snap of wings, settling lightly on his fist. Its claws pricked; he paid no heed to that small pain amid so many others. He looked into that wild golden eye, that pure feral mind. It had no fear of him. It was kin.

  It leaped from his fist into the freedom of the air. He lowered his stinging hand. Beads of blood gleamed on it, scarlet on bronze.

  The men about him sighed, all together. Their captain’s suspicions had not eased, but it seemed he had had the answer he sought. “Come, lord,” he said. “Come with us.”

  Daros sensed no danger in any of them, not unless he offered a threat. He tucked his bundle under his arm and offered his weaponless, nearly naked self for their inspection. “Lead, sir,” he said. “I follow.”

  They led him away from the sand, over a sharp blade of hill and down to startling, glorious green: the valley of a broad river, bordered in desert. There were villages along the river, and towns, and one town larger than the rest, which here might pass for a city.

  He would have given much for a senel to carry him, but he saw nothing of that kin or kind. They had cattle, not unlike the cattle of his world, but he saw no one on the backs of those. People traveled afoot or in boats, or once in a chair on the shoulders of brawny men, as men went in this place. They were still small and slight beside him.

  He walked because he must, though he was going blind again, this time with exhaustion. When they paused for water, he drank three measured sips, and rather to his surprise, was offered three more. They had bread with it; he ate a little, but it was coarse and gritty and its taste was strange. He was hungry, but not hungry enough for that.

  The sun was much lower when at last they came to the city. He walked because he had no choice. People stared; a murmur followed him. “A god. Another god.”

  He was too tired to wonder what they meant by that. The shade of walls was welcome, even redolent of crowded humanity.

  They took him inside a house, large as houses went here, with a guarded gate and high thick walls. It was cool inside, and the stench of the city was less; he caught the sweetness of flowers. His companions left him there, and quiet kilted people took him in hand. They brought him to a cool dim room, bathed him and dried him and laid him in a bed, and cooled him with fans until he slid into sleep.

  He slept long and deep. If he dreamed, he did not remember. He woke with the awareness of where he was and how he had come there, complete in his mind, like the magic that had poured back into him like wine into a cup. It was horribly weak still, and his head ached abominably, but he had known worse after a long night’s carouse.

  The servants were ready for him to rise. They had bread and thin sour beer, fruit and cheese and a pot of honey. The bread was not so ill, dipped in the honey. He was starving. He ate every scrap, to the servants’ manifest approval.

  He smiled at them. They smiled back. One offered to comb his hair—an honor the man had won against the rest, from the look of him. The color of it fascinated them. They had already satisfied themselves that it was real, running curious fingers over his brows and lashes and the light dusting of stubble on cheeks and chin. They presumed no further, which was well; he was not in a wanton mood this morning.

  Fed and combed and shaven, and dressed in a kilt of lovely lightness and coolness, he was judged fit to be brought before the lord of the house. He was not moving so stiffly now; the raw edges of his magic were healing. He kept it close within himself, letting slip only enough to understand and be understood.

  The servants led him through halls and courts, past people who stared, some openly, some behind the screen of fans. Many were women; some were lovely by any canon. They returned his glances with a clear sense of welcome. He was a great beauty, they agreed in murmurs that he was meant to hear. They wondered aloud if all of him was as beautiful as the parts that they could see.

  Courts, it seemed, were the same in every world. He prepared his most proper and princely face for the lord of this one, as well as his patience, if he should be required to wait upon his highness’ pleasure.

  In that rather insouciant frame of mind, he entered a room of painted walls and heavy pillars, lit by shafts of sunlight. The lord was sitting just on the edge of one such blaze of brilliance, erect in a gilded chair. There was a creature in his lap, a very small but very magical cat. It eyes were the image of his, clear gold.

  Daros laughed for pure delighted astonishment. “My lord!”

  The emperor grinned at him, wide and white in a face that ha
d lost half a score of years with the shaving of its thick graying beard. He shifted the cat to the floor at his feet and rose, sweeping Daros into a strong embrace.

  Daros’ eyes had spilled over. Foolishness; but he was tired still, and a little overwrought. The emperor held him at arm’s length, looked him up and down, and said, “Avaryan and Uveryen, boy; something’s been at you with cudgels.”

  “It was a long hunt,” Daros said. He sighed. He was not particularly weak in the knees, but Estarion set him in the chair and stood over him, searching his face with eyes that saw everything Daros had to tell.

  His hands came to rest on Daros’ shoulders. Daros had no power to rise or to turn away. He had never been less inclined toward easy insolence.

  “Show me,” said Estarion.

  Daros had brought the purse with its few oddments and its one great gift. He drew it out carefully. It weighed as light here as in that place between worlds, but in sunlight its appearance was transformed. It was pure and stainless white, and it shimmered like moonlight on water.

  Estarion did not venture to touch it. A slow breath escaped him. He nodded slightly; Daros put the feather away, with a little regret and a little relief.

  There was a silence. Daros broke it after some little while. “You really are the lord of this place?”

  The emperor’s brow arched. “That surprises you?”

  “Knowing you, my lord,” said Daros, “no. Are you working your way back up from shepherd?”

  “I do hope not,” Estarion said. “This is a little different from any occupation I’ve held before: royal consort.”

  “Royal—ah!” That did surprise Daros. “Does time move differently here? How many years is it since you came?”

  “It’s barely two Brightmoon-cycles,” Estarion said, “and yes, that’s mortal fast work. Come and meet her. Then you’ll understand.”

  Daros set his lips together and settled for a nod. Nothing that he could say would be exactly wise. Estarion had a look that he could hardly mistake. Whatever this royal lady was, she must be beyond remarkable, to so enchant the Lord of Sun and Lion.

  She was in a small court near the wall that surrounded the house, kilted like a man and armed with a spear, doing battle against three men. Daros recognized one: the captain who had found him in the desert yesterday.

  She was fast and strong. She was as tall as the captain, slender without slightness, but he could have no doubt that she was a woman. Her breasts, in Han-Gilen, would have been reckoned perfect: neither large nor small, round and firm, with broad dark nipples. Her face was a narrow oval, her features carved clean, beauty without softness, as pure as a steel blade.

  Oh, he understood: he would have been astonished, seeing her, to discover that Estarion had not taken her for his own. She was no callow child; she was younger than Merian, perhaps, but not by overmuch. If he had come there first, he might have had thoughts of claiming her for himself.

  It was too late for that now. She finished her fight, and well, but he saw how she was aware of Estarion, how her face and body changed subtly in his presence. This was a woman in love, and with all that was in her. Nor was it unrequited. The force of the bond between them rocked Daros on his feet.

  He had heard of such a thing, but never seen it. His mother, his father—they were reckoned a love-match, but not with the absolute purity of this. They were two who had joined for love and for policy. These were the halves of one creature.

  She flattened one of her opponents with a sweeping blow, knocked one of the others onto his back with the butt of the spear, and froze the captain in midstroke with the tempered copper point of the spear against the vein of his throat. He bowed and surrendered. She smiled a swift vivid smile.

  Daros was in love. It had nothing in it of lust; he would never touch what these two had, even if he could. As she turned toward him, he bowed to her as to the queen she was.

  She raised him with a queen’s dignity. Her smile lingered, illumining her face. “Welcome to my city, my lord,” she said.

  “You are most kind, lady,” he said.

  “It’s only your due,” she said, “as my guest and my lord’s kinsman.”

  He bowed again, over her hands, and could find no more words to say.

  Estarion was laughing at him. Let him laugh. Even the infamous libertine of the Hundred Realms could stand speechless before such a woman.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE MAGES CAME BACK TO THE TEMPLE IN STARIOS, BATTERED and half-stunned but safe. But Daros was gone from the world.

  Merian had known from the moment he vanished. It was a tearing deep inside her, as if some hitherto unnoticed and yet essential part had been rent away. Even the Heart of the World had not wounded her so deeply—and it was far more to her and to her mages and this world than he could ever be.

  She would kill him when she found him. With her own hands she would do it. He had broken every oath, every promise, every binding that anyone had laid on him. He was beyond incorrigible.

  He was most likely dead, if not worse. The shadow had him. When she was not in a right rage, she might allow herself to mourn him. He had been a human creature, after all, and a lord of some worth in the empire.

  “Lady?”

  Perel’s voice called her back to herself. Her mind was wandering; she could not remember when last she had slept. Her eyes fell on what he had brought back from the roof of the world.

  It looked like a bowl, hollowed laboriously out of hard grey stone. The inside of it was stained, no doubt with blood. It was heavy and cold in the hands.

  There was nothing in it. Nothing at all. It took magic and swallowed it; spells and workings cast upon it vanished as if they had never been.

  It was a monstrously dangerous thing. “How like him to fling it in my face and disappear,” she said.

  Perel, for reasons best known to himself, had returned to the robes of his caste, black on black on black, and veiled to the eyes. Those eyes had a bruised look, but they kept their faintly sardonic expression. “It is a rather cryptic message to send before flinging oneself into the void. He did see something there, I think: something that he knew you would understand.”

  “I see nothing,” she said.

  His brows went up. “Might that not be the message?”

  “You are as exasperating as he is.”

  “Not quite,” he said. He bent toward the bowl. “We went in search of knowledge. We brought down a stronghold and brought back … this. I don’t believe we failed, cousin. He said it was a key, although to what, he didn’t say.”

  “To madness,” she muttered. She propped her chin on her fists and glared at the thing. “Mages can make no sense of it. Priests bid me shun it. Servants of the Dark Mother swear that it’s none of hers. Even my brother and his father know nothing of this. I need that maddening boy—and he, gods curse him, is nowhere among the living.”

  “I think,” said Perel, “that he’s not dead. Whether he’s worse than that, I can’t tell you—but if he were, you would know.”

  “How would I—”

  His glance spoke all the volumes that he had failed to find on the roof of the world. She wanted to slap him. “I do not—”

  “Don’t lie to yourself,” he said.

  She flung herself away from the table and the bowl, round that shielded chamber in the temple of the Gates. The shields oppressed her, the riddle she could not solve, the one who was not there to tell her what it meant.

  She needed to be elsewhere. A ride, a hunt, even an hour in a garden—

  She was the general of this war. The defenses of this world were hers. She did not know what the enemy was or how to fight it. This should have aided her; should have told her what she needed to know.

  She needed to be royal, to be a commander of the armies of mages. She wanted to be where he was. Even if that were the pits of the darkest hell.

  She went in search of her mother. It had nothing to do with maternal comfort. She needed to remember why
she could not abandon everything, as he had, and go hunting shadows.

  The princess regent was closeted with her chancellor and his secretaries, engrossed in the minutiae of empire. Within moments of showing her face, Merian had a clean page in front of her, inks and pens to hand, and her mother pacing, dictating a letter to an imperial governor in Asanion.

  Details of taxes and tribute raised a wall against her greater troubles. She was almost sorry to finish the letter and look up into her mother’s eyes. They were piercingly keen. “Put that away,” said Daruya, “and come with me.”

  The chancellor bowed. His secretaries paused in their work, rose and did reverence. Daruya acknowledged them with a nod. She swept Merian with her out of the workroom and through the maze of passages to a sunlit gallery overlooking the garden.

  Even as late in the year as it was, flowers grew in this sheltered place, and bright birds darted among them. Daruya sat her daughter on the bench there and stood over her. “Tell me,” she said.

  Her directness was bracing. Merian had wanted it; she could hardly complain that it lacked a certain tenderness. Daruya was not tender. Honed steel never was.

  “Have I been dutiful?” Merian asked her. “Have I been a proper royal heir?”

  “In most things,” Daruya said, “yes. There is the matter of an heir of your own.”

  Merian laughed. It was not mirth, exactly; more startlement, and a stab of guilt. “I may be proper in that respect, too, if the gods are kind.”

  Daruya straightened and breathed deep. “How unsuitable is he? Is he a commoner?”

  “Not at all,” said Merian.

  “Is he old? Lame? Feebleminded?”