Isaura turned away so as not to invite more displays of imagery from it and hasten its death, but not quickly enough. The image in the petals shifted from her to the face of the youth she had saved in Meredo. It showed him resting and no longer in pain, for which she rejoiced, and she hoped the image was not drawn from her memory but somehow reflective of him at the current time.
That confused her, her hope. She did not know who the youth was or why she had saved him. Yes, she had wanted to undo what Spyr’skara had done. She had not liked the way the Azure Spider looked at her, so frustrating him had given her pleasure. Even after her return to the inn and reunion with Vionna and Nefrai-kesh, when she learned that the new sullanciri had been slain, she did not regret having undone his work.
It was only after Nefrai-kesh had taken her and the pirate back home that she began to think more deeply about what she had done. The possibility that her action might have been the very betrayal her mother hinted at did not escape her. She should have felt horrified about that possibility, and she was—at first. But something had shielded her from regret.
She felt as if, somehow, she had been compelled to heal the youth. She had cast herself onto the river of magick and had allowed it to carry her wherever she was meant to go. It had sped her to him and, once there, helping him was imperative.
Isaura shook her head. She did not like at all the idea that she was not responsible for her actions. At the very least, she had been the one to abandon herself to magick, so everything that flowed from that decision was her fault. If she angered her mother by her actions, she had no one to blame but herself.
The problem was that she felt no shame. She could rationalize it through her knowledge that her mother never would have wanted to see a young innocent in such pain. But ultimately, her mother’s concerns were not her own. Isaura felt that what she had done was right. The other presence in the room had confirmed this. She was some part of a grander scheme, but she had chosen to act. That she had acted as she did felt right, but for the life of her she could not figure out why.
A hissing sound came to her ears and she looked up. A whirling cylinder of ice and snow drifted to and fro as it slowly wended its way into the garden. It dodged around the larger creations, then drifted past smaller, pausing as if to caress the harmless little animals. Once it had worked its way to the heart of the garden, it swirled over her and around her, and she spun, laughing, in its midst.
It drew away, then tightened and congealed into the form of an older man, with a beard and flowing hair, wearing simple garb complete with a furred cloak. His flesh remained translucent and flowed into a smile as his head came up. His hands worked through a series of gestures and punctuated them with a raised eyebrow.
Isaura bowed to him. “Yes, Drolda, I have been away, but no more. I am here again, my friend, and wish never to leave.”
He signed through the secret language they shared.
“The Southlands are strange, Drolda, as well you know.” She sighed. “There was much there I still do not understand.”
Drolda frowned as his finger wove through a question.
Isaura hesitated. “It is not so much that I am bothered. I am puzzled. Yes, puzzled.” She much preferred the idea of being puzzled rather than worried, because a puzzle could be solved.
His head spun around on his shoulders, so he seemed to be peering behind him at the snowflake tree. His head came all the way around, then he exhaled into a cloud that solidified into the youth’s image.
“Yes. He was hurt, gravely hurt. I saved him from poison, but I do not know who he was or why I saved him. He could have been an enemy whose life threatens that of my mother.”
Her friend’s expression soured. Drolda did not like her mother, but for reasons that had never been explained.
Isaura gave him a sad expression. “Do you know who that was?”
The rimeman shook his head, then shrugged, mitigating a portion of the denial. His hands formed a reply.
Isaura laughed. “Forces at play, you say? You are cryptic today, my friend. Gone are the days when you would delight me with simple antics and simple tales.”
The creature of ice caressed her shoulder lightly, then contorted his features into an absurd mask that was meant to make her laugh.
She did, but caught the distinct impression that Drolda was hiding something from her. Before she could inquire, however, he went to pieces as if a handful of powder snow in a gale, and she felt the cold kiss of some ice on her cheek. She had seen him disappear like that many times before, and it always betokened one thing. Though she could have turned and been waiting for them, she instead strode deeper into the garden.
“Princess, a moment please.”
She turned at Nefrai-kesh’s call. “Yes, my lord?”
The leader of the sullanciri stood beside Neskartu’s scintillating form. “In your mother’s absence, I am tasked with your safety. There is a situation in Okrannel that demands my attention.”
“Am I to accompany you, Lord Nefrai-kesh?”
Bands of blue streaked through the sullanciri’s white eyes. “Your company would be most welcome, Princess, and I would be honored by it. You would find Okrannel much to your liking. Vast tracts have been returned to their unsullied state. Alas, what I shall be doing would create hardship for you.”
Isaura frowned. Nefrai-kesh, above all the others, showed her respect. The rest of the sullanciri, save perhaps Myrall’mara, deferred to her out of fear of her mother. Myrall’mara, while respectful, tended to avoid her. Isaura did not mind their distance, for Myrall’mara always seemed sorrowful, and Isaura had never been able to reach past that sadness.
Nefrai-kesh, on the other hand, had been much of what she imagined a father would be. He had, over the years, introduced her to many things. He taught her how to ride a Grand Temeryx. Newly returned from his journeys, he would give her gifts. The one she treasured most highly was a sapphire ring he said the Queen of Oriosa had insisted he bear to her. Other things, from small bone carvings to exotic teas, had brought her hints of the Southlands and expanded the world beyond the white disk that surrounded the Citadel.
“You know, my lord, that I am not as delicate as you might imagine.”
“I know, Princess. Your peregrinations through the streets of Meredo alone tell me you are capable of many things.” Neither his body or voice betrayed any hint of suspicion. His face she could not read because of the mask he wore, but had he thought she’d done anything wrong, she’d have known long before this.
“It is that I need to engage an enemy who has proved rather crafty.”
“But I would enjoy seeing my mother’s enemies vanquished.”
“Indeed, I believe that.” Nefrai-kesh nodded toward Neskartu. “Resistance to your mother’s army has crumbled in Sebcia. Her forces advance into Muroso, and Neskartu will be leading a group of his students to join them. Your mother does want you to see her enemies fall, so you will do so in Neskartu’s company.”
Isaura tugged lightly on her lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “Will we be going to fight, or just to observe, Lord Neskartu?”
Your mother desires you to observe. My students will fight if they have the opportunity.
Nefrai-kesh raised his right index finger. “It is important that you understand something, Princess. Muroso, before it was part of the great revolt, had been home to the empire’s own school of magick. The Academy at Caledo rivaled Vilwan for a time, and Murosan sorcerers are very proud. It is their tradition to engage in duels. They do this for their own pleasure, though they say it is to save the simple folk from suffering. They will challenge our magickers, but you are not to allow yourself to be drawn into one of these duels.
“I need you to observe, and report back to me. While your mother wishes you to see her enemies collapse, I desire this favor of you: use your eyes and senses to tell me how best to continue to defeat her enemies. Will you do this for me?”
“Of course, my
lord.” Isaura nodded solemnly. “Shall I send to you by arcanslata, or is there another means I should use?”
The sullanciri stepped forward boldly. Snow crunched beneath his boots. He stopped in front of her, then raised his right hand. “Close your eyes, Princess; open yourself to me.”
She did as she was bid. She felt him press three fingers to her forehead. For a moment her flesh tingled, then she shivered. It felt as if something had, just for a heartbeat, frozen the river of magick. It rushed on immediately after that, but the pause shook her.
She opened her eyes as his fingers left her flesh. “What did you do?”
“A trickle of magick, Princess, linking us. When you wish to speak with me, just concentrate and I shall find you. You will tell me what you know, and I shall be obliged.”
Isaura nodded. “Yes, my lord, and I shall be pleased to be of service.”
“Excellent.” Nefrai-kesh turned quickly and peered at Neskartu. “And you, my old friend, you know that if any harm comes to her, you had best be dead. In fact, your last act should be to send her home. Your failure to keep her safe will result in untold miseries.”
Of this we are aware, my lord. Even death will not prevent me from keeping our beloved empress’ daughter safe.
Isaura felt the confidence in Neskartu’s thought, but the creature’s colors had dulled and slowed while his outline lost some of its crispness.
The king of the sullanciri nodded. “Very well. Princess, you will be traveling south by conventional means. Do not feel you need overburden the drear-sleigh with chests of clothes or an overabundance of supplies. Anything you need shall be given to you on the journey. By its end, you shall be bedecked in the finery of Sebcia and Muroso, honoring your mother’s new subjects with your choices.”
“How soon do we leave, my lord?”
“Tomorrow evening.” Nefrai-kesh waved her back toward the Citadel. “Servants will come and aid you in packing. It is not much time, I know, but to delay would deprive you of learning what your mother desires you to know.”
“It is enough time, my lord, thank you.” Isaura smiled, then turned in a circle to survey the garden one last time. The snowflake tree chose that moment to fall to pieces, and its swordlike branches sheared through a family of rabbits as they descended, but it did not seem to her an ill omen. It would occur to her later that it should have, but by then events were moving so swiftly that even with this warning, disaster could not have been averted.
CHAPTER 30
K errigan Reese felt better, though still uneasy. Before he left the chamber, Rym Ramoch had instructed Bok to bathe and clothe Kerrigan after the young mage ate. The meal had proved filling though not terribly appetizing. Kerrigan suspected the meat in the gravy was really rat, but at that point he was so hungry he didn’t care.
After that came a bath. The urZrethi wrestled a half-tun cask into the small room and filled it with water. From a shelf he took a small piece of volcanic rock, whispered over it, then tossed it into the water. Bubbles rose quickly and steam drifted, then the urZrethi pulled the rock out, bounced it from hand to hand, and finally set it steaming on the shelf.
Kerrigan slipped into the warm water and prepared to relax, but Bok took the orders to bathe him seriously. The urZrethi scrubbed him up one side and down the other, leaving his skin red and tingling. Kerrigan had never felt so much a child as he did in that bath. With one hand Bok was able to shift him this way and that, and Kerrigan had no doubt the urZrethi could have hauled him bodily from the bath without difficulty.
Once he’d been bathed, Bok brought him warm clothes of a very utilitarian nature. Though Kerrigan had grown up wearing robes, he had since gotten used to trousers and tunics. Moreover, he associated them with adventure. And because his wearing of them would be frowned upon by his superiors on Vilwan, that sort of minor rebellion thrilled him.
Once Bok had cleared away the wash basin, he brought bedding and bid Kerrigan lie down. As the mage did, the urZrethi stretched an arm up until it was thinner than a spear haft, and pinched the chandelier candles dark.
Kerrigan lay back and considered what Rym had told him. The simple fact that Kerrigan could perform the magicks that he did meant that men could learn them. While Kerrigan loved to think of himself as special, it did seem curious that someone like the Grand Magister could not cast even the most simple of healing spells. And yet, the Grand Magister did know that it was possible for a man to cast those spells.
Either Yrulph Kirûn had been a genius and figured out a lot of things about magick for himself, or he had been taught a great deal and expanded upon it. Or both. Perhaps he so outstripped his superiors that they really had no idea what he was capable of doing.
Just like me.
It made sense, in the aftermath of it all, for leaders on Vilwan to institute changes in instruction that hobbled their charges. If the greatest threat the world had ever known had come from Vilwan, without concessions and safeguards Vilwan would have been destroyed. Nations would refuse to send their talented sorcerers to Vilwan to be trained, shutting down the island and its culture.
Kerrigan’s mind reeled as things began to fit into place. Nations had no real desire to have strong magick academies because the first one of them to produce a Kirûn could begin a war of conquest against its neighbors. What the world leaders needed was stable magick in the human nations—magick that would help do many things and make life a bit easier, but nothing that would allow the atrocities that Kirûn had committed when he fashioned and used the DragonCrown.
The leadership on Vilwan, then, would have approached the world leaders with a plan to curb their own magickal power in return for continued support. They purposely stunted the people they trained, while keeping alive the fact that men could handle more powerful spells. He wasn’t sure when someone was told the truth about magick, but it was likely after one had attained the rank of Magister—and even then probably only after they had proved their loyalty to Vilwan.
But when Chytrine made her first drive south a quarter century earlier, the Vilwanese leaders realized they’d made a mistake. They had no one who could counter her abilities, for she had been Kirûn’s apprentice. Given a generation’s respite, they endeavored to train someone who could rival her in power. While they didn’t want to produce someone who could threaten the world the way Kirûn had, only Vilwan could produce someone who could defeat her.
At least that would have been their thinking.
So Vilwan created Kerrigan.
And now they fear what they created.
The implications of that realization sent a shiver through him. Would they hunt him down? They had sent one group after him already. What would they bring once they knew how powerful he truly was?
He shook his head in the darkness and consciously shunted those ideas away. Instead he focused on another thing Rym Ramoch had mentioned: the taint on his magick. Kerrigan had long known that different spells had different sensations. A human spell felt rather crude and angular when compared to the living flow of an elven spell. And urZrethi magick had an evanescent quality. Their magick shifted like smoke and shadows, difficult to grasp, but easy to manipulate and use to foster changes.
Thinking about that led him to two questions. The first actually begged an answer. Because he could identify a spell by its casting, he wondered if there were other characteristics that would allow him to learn more about the spell and its caster. Orla had told him that the wand Wheele had carried had somehow allowed the sorcerer to identify her, and to tailor a spell to kill her. Wheele had even taunted her by saying his master, the sullanciri Neskartu, had given him the wand for use against “Vilwan spawn.” Wheele’s comment suggested that there was an identifiable aspect to the magick cast by someone trained on Vilwan. Moreover, Orla had once implied that elements in a spell could help someone identify the individual spellcaster.
Kerrigan accepted the idea that something in how he cast a spell might allow someone to identify him. It was similar
to oration: the same speech given to a hundred different people will sound largely the same, but each speaker would bring something new to it that would allow people to differentiate one speaker from another. Identifying the individual speaker would be more difficult, but with sufficient study and good observation, it could be done.
His acceptance of those ideas brought him to the idea of taint. He fully accepted that magickal items of great power were identifiable. The notion that some of their essence might rub off on those who came in contact with them did not surprise him. Not only had he carried a portion of the DragonCrown, but he had worked magick on it and another fragment, and had actually touched yet a third portion of it. For him to be tainted by that contact did not surprise him, and Rym Ramoch had accepted his explanation for the taint without question.
The more curious idea, however, was that Rym had talked about the taint of Kirûn’s spell. Kerrigan knew that when he worked magick he drew energy into himself and used it to make spells work, but he had never dwelt long on where that energy came from. He did know some students had trouble accessing it, but that had never been his problem. In fact, many of his tutors had envied the facility with which he was able to draw power to him and infuse it into his spells.
What if, however . . . and here he sought an analogy that might suffice. If drawing power to him were really akin to mining coal, would it be possible that his hands would remain dirty? Would his hands be stained? Would his nails be black? Moreover, if the very act of casting a particular spell left some trace of it on him, would that mean he would bear that taint? Again, Rym’s recognition of KirÛn’s magick on him would suggest this was true.
And if that is true . . . Kerrigan hugged his arms to his chest. If a spell or item could leave a trace on an individual, then couldn’t that trace be detected? Such a spell, if attuned to the DragonCrown, for example, might be able to let him fix Chytrine’s location, so they could strike at her.
When Dragons Rage Page 24
