by Angus Wells
“Then it would appear you are superfluous to this task.” Menelian smiled, his gaze encompassing all three but the comment clearly directed at Katya. “I repeat my offer.”
The woman looked to her father and they spoke briefly in their own tongue, then she turned to the sorcerer and said, “Very well. Let us return and study this library of yours.”
Menelian bowed and turned again to Tekkan. “Quindar ek’Nyle will provide anything you require,” he said, “and should you need to send word, you’ve only to ask him.”
“I think we’ve all we need.”
The boatmaster gestured at the equipment set out around the dock and the sorcerer ducked his head, his cloak swirling as he swung about.
“Then let us return,” he declared.
THE shrouding blanket of fog held sway over the city until midmorning, and by then Calandryll had decided that Menelian’s library was poorly served with any tracts on necromancy and its creations. He and the sorcerer had spent the hours ransacking the shelves for such works as might prove useful, but found so far only the vaguest references, more forklore and legend than reliable facts. Bracht and Katya, the one cheerfully unlettered and the other unfamiliar with the written language of Kandahar, engaged in sword practice in the garden, the sounds of their combat dulled until at last the winter-hard sun force a way through the mist and servants threw back the shutters.
Menelian rolled the parchment he studied and pushed it away, looking to the window, its thick glass distorting the figures beyond to render hem fantastical, like images from a dream. The brightening sun struck sparks off Katya’s mail, the dancing column of her blade. Facing the black-clad Kern she was all gold and silver, her laughter bright as she parried an attack.
“A man might die for such a woman,” the sorcerer murmured. “I’ve not met her like.”
“Nor Bracht.” Calandryll set the intricacy of a dried leaf between the ivory-tinted pages of a tome bound in cracked leather as he followed the sorcerer’s gaze.
“She’s promised?”
Menelian’s voice was wistful: Calandryll nodded. “In a way. Bracht lays claim to her, but until this quest of ours is done, Katya will accept no man’s suit. Not until the Arcanum is destroyed and Rhythamun’s threat ended.”
The sorcerer smiled. “Then hope exists.”
“You’d face Bracht’s blade,” Calandryll warned, “and I believe Katya’s mind made up.”
“Blades are of little consequence to me,” Menelian returned absentmindedly, though his smile lost a measure of its optimism. “But if she’s already chosen . . .”
Calandryll shrugged. It had barely occurred to him that wizards experienced the common emotions of mortal men, but this sorcerer, gazing wistfully at the warrior woman, showed all the signs he had seen in Bracht; all those, he supposed, that he had shown to Nadama.
Menelian’s voice was thoughtful as he studied the pair. “Folk think us above such matters. They think because we practice the occult arts we lose ordinary feelings. But we do not! Sometimes, my friend, it is very lonely. The common folk fear us; others regard us with suspicion. To encounter a woman such as Katya is rare.” The smile he still showed was rueful and it seemed almost that he read Calandryll’s mind. Then he snorted laughter, his good humor returning. “No matter, we must each accept our destiny, and though I’d see her stay, I shall do as I promised—all aid to your quest.”
“And my thanks for that,” Calandryll said. “I’d not anticipated such help from a mage.”
“Why not?” Menelian shifted his eyes reluctantly from the window to Calandryll’s face. “Because of past betrayals?”
“Those sorcerers I’ve so far met have proven”—Calandryll paused, not wishing to offend—“unfriendly.”
Now Menelian’s laughter was genuine. “Unfriendly?” He shook his head, amused. “You’ve a talent for understatement, Calandryll. But you trust me, do you not?”
He grew serious again, and it seemed, from the expression on his face and the earnest tone he employed, that he needed reassurance. Calandryll nodded and said, “Aye.”
“I discern a limitation.” Menelian rested his elbows on the table, hands cupped beneath his chin, his eyes firm on Calandryll’s. “Do you explain it?”
Calandryll thought for a moment, then said, “I trust you. But you have spoken of factions among your fellow sorcerers, and those two with whom I’ve had the closest acquaintance have proven far less than friendly.”
“Of Anomius and Rhythamun we’ve already spoken,” said Menelian, “Of the Tyrant’s sorcerers . . . aye, there are factions, differences of opinion. Were that not so, you’d not receive my help now. But is that not the way of the world? Did men not disagree, we’d all follow like sheep after whoever speaks the loudest; did we not accept the dictates of our conscience, then surely the strong should always force their will on the weak. Those of the inner circle who’d pander unreservedly to Anomius’s demands would ignore the greater imperative—to prevent Tharn’s raising.”
“How can they?” asked Calandryll, and Menelian sighed and shrugged, his eyes clouding.
“They see only the immediate future,” he answered slowly, “not the greater picture. They are not evil men; only given to swift answers—Sathoman ek’Hennem threatens the stability of Kandahar and must be halted. Anomius offers a speedy answer to that threat—therefore they accede to his terms.”
“And would sacrifice us to his ambition.” Calandryll’s gesture encompassed himself and the two duelists in the garden. “Is that not evil?”
“They think not,” Menelian returned sadly. “To them, the end justifies the means. And if they may end this civil war, what are the lives of a Lyssian and a Kern?”
“Important enough to us,” Calandryll declared.
“But would you not give them up to halt Rhythamun?”
All vestiges of mist were gone now, the sky grown an icy blue from which the sun shone with cold brilliance, refulgent against the windowpanes. Through the thick glass it sent lambent rays over the sorcerer’s face, lighting bright points in his keen eyes. Calandryll ducked his head. “For that, aye,” he allowed. “Not for Anomius’s ambition.”
“You perceive the larger picture.” Menelian’s eyes narrowed against the glare. “As do I and those whose orders I follow; the others do not, and we must defeat them.”
“Even though, by aiding us, you perhaps fail Kandahar?”
The sorcerer chuckled, shaking his head. “I believe that by aiding you I aid Kandahar and all the world,” he said.
“And if your aid is discovered?” Calandryll stared at him, curious. “You spoke of retribution.”
Now Menelian’s expression grew solemn. He said: “Aye. Save that you sail free ere word comes down to hold you, my life is forfeit. Does Xenomenus send word to take you, then I am exposed—a traitor to the Tyrant. And that has but one outcome,”
“Your Tyrant would seem a hard master,” Calandryll suggested.
Menelian smiled thinly and said, “He is—but he is the only master Kandahar knows. Without him there is only anarchy; without the rule of the Tyrants this land would surely be plunged into chaos. Burash! Did the sorcerers not work in semblance of union under the Tyrant’s aegis, Sathoman ek’Hennem would likely take Nhur-jabal. And after that? Why, there’d be some new Sathoman to contest his rule, and then another and another until all Kandahar be torn apart.”
“It seems a poor choice, still,” Calandryll murmured. “One made of expediency.”
“Save the gods step in to govern our affairs it is the best we have,” Menelian replied. “We are but men—even we who possess the occult talent—and men are fallible.”
Calandryll could find no answer against that, and the mage’s comment ignited a new thought, one not entirely welcome. He frowned as it took hold, a hand rising in doubt to his mouth, his teeth worrying at the joint. Menelian, too, frowned, seeing his expression. “What troubles you?” he wondered.
Calandryll paused, though
ts of what Bracht and Katya had said as they entered Vishat’yi flashing fast through his mind. Menelian waited patiently until at last he said slowly, “You speak of occult talent, and I’ve told you of the stone Rhythamun gave me . . . He told me then that he saw that talent in me. And in Kharasul a spaewife claimed to discern the same.”
His voice trailed off as interest flashed in the sorcerer’s eyes, not sure he wanted confirmation or denial: not sure what he wanted.
“And have you?” asked Menelian.
Calandryll grinned humorlessly, his gaze distant as he reviewed the past. “When the Vanu warboat first came close, a storm rose,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “and when the savages of Gash attacked us, their canoes were driven back by a great wind. In Mherut’yi I made myself invisible; and when the Chaipaku attacked us, those who came against me were thrown back. I believed it was the stone that made all that possible.”
“Such stones may channel talent,” Menelian said, “but only that. Save the wearer be imbued with the gift, they are no more than ornaments.”
“Then you say I am a sorcerer?” asked Calandryll.
The Kand’s lips pursed as he contemplated the question. Then he said carefully, “There are some who have the gift and never know it; more who realize it only at the lowest levels. Spaewives, seers, hedge-wizards . . . all possess the talent to greater or lesser extent. But a sorcerer—a sorcerer is one who has studied the occult and learned the full extent of his, or her, talent and the sundry ways in which it may be invoked, employed. That is a long road, of years spent in study, learning the correct usage of the cantrips and the glamours.”
“I have learned none,” Calandryll said. “Save that one taught me by Rhythamun that I might become invisible.”
Menelian’s eyes asked a question and Calandryll shook his head, saying, “Since he took the stone I have not used it.”
“Attempt it now,” the mage suggested.
Calandryll began to shake his head. What had transpired with Rhythamun—that soul-sickening betrayal—and what he had learned since of Anomius persuaded him against such experimentation. For all that he accepted Menelian as a friend, he found himself swung more to Bracht’s way of thinking: that his faith was sounder based in blade and cunning than thaumaturgy; that magic was not to be trusted. Though he could not exactly define it, he recognized in some inarticulate manner that his distaste stemmed from disillusion, from the knowledge that so far magic had been used to trick and dupe him, and that persuaded him against accepting the talent in himself. It felt as if such admission must rank him with the likes of those he abhorred. Yet here he sat, engaged in debate with such an occultist who proved himself by word and deed an ally, and if he possessed the power, surely it must prove an advantage in the quest: he forced aversion back, imposing a more scholarly discipline on his rebellious mind.
Again it seemed that Menelian read his thoughts. Or perhaps merely interpreted the expression on his face.
“The talent in itself is neither good nor evil,” the wizard said gently, “it only is. The manner of its employment determines whether it be beneficent or baleful.”
Calandryll nodded and slowly voiced the cantrip.
No scent of almonds wafted, nor shimmering of the light. From Menelian’s face he saw the glamour was not effective: he felt relief. It seemed, in that instant, that had the spell worked, he should have been proven something other than he believed himself to be.
“I think,” he heard Menelian say, “that Rhythamun laid such glamours on the stone as would aid you on the way to the Arcanum and no more than that.”
“Thus aiding himself,” Calandryll grunted bitterly.
“That, certainly,” the wizard agreed, “but even so . . .”
“What?”
Calandryll felt emotions rise, unsure whether they were optimistic or fearful, staring hard at Menelian as the Kand said carefully, “But without some power that you possess the glamour could not have worked at all, the stone been no more than that—a stone.”
“I know the words,” he retorted, hearing anger—or fear?—in his voice, “I learned them well enough, but now they have no effect. What mean you?”
“That some kind of power rests in you,” said Menelian. “Latent, save when directed through a magical object.”
Calandryll exhaled sharply, the breath whistling through his clenched teeth like a cry of denial. “As Bracht remarked,” he said, “these are sorcerer’s riddles.”
“No,” Menelian demurred, “only supposition based on what you’ve said. Do you allow me, there is, perhaps, a way I might arrive at some clearer understanding.”
“How so?” demanded Calandryll.
“I must use my own talent,” came the answer. “Do you allow that—do you open yourself to me—then I may be able to define yours.”
He closed his mouth on the instinctive rejection that arose. For all the antipathy he felt, he recognized that he faced a near-impossible quest. He was sworn to hunt down Rhythamun—a thaumaturge ages old and steeped in power, whose own occult strength was indisputable—with only Katya’s stone to guide him, and that for now pointing only to Aldarin. Would it lead them on from there? To where? And should they succeed in forcing a confrontation—what then? Their blades were already proven useless against the warlock: no matter what he felt, had he the right to ignore any means by which he might gain advantage?
He sighed and said, “So be it, then.”
Menelian’s smile was reassuring as he rose to his feet. Sunlight lost itself in the subfusc of his robe, but where the symbols of his status were embroidered the cabbalistic emblems glittered brighter and Calandryll stared at them, not sure that he truly wanted this. He steeled himself as the mage beckoned him closer, moving to meet him so that they stood facing each other before the hearth, the crackling of logs unheard as Menelian said, “Give me your hands.”
Silently, Calandryll obeyed. The sorcerer’s grip was firm, his skin cool and smooth. Calandryll asked, “What must I do?” and Menelian answered, “Nothing. Only look into my eyes.”
Again Calandryll did as he was bade, staring into orbs that he saw were dark violet, lightened by the sun. They seemed to grow as he watched them, expanding and merging until the handsome face that owned them was lost and he felt that he looked down into a well of of deep water. He felt himself drawn in, resisting an instant, then, remembering the sorcerer’s words, giving himself over to that weird suction, plunging into the unknown. He was reminded of the utter darkness through which the gates in Gessyth had transported him, his senses reeling, the sensation of falling mounting. Faintly he caught the scent of almonds, but that seemed distant, a mere trace, swiftly fading, as if only the tunnel of the sorcerer’s eyes existed, eliminating all else, and he fell or rose—he was no longer sure, direction became meaningless as his physical surroundings—into that dark gaze. His mind swam, floating somewhere beyond himself, a thing detached from his corporeal being, drifting on a dark current that turned him helplessly this way and that. If Menelian intoned some cantrip, he did not hear it, no more than he any longer felt the touch of the mage’s hands, or the heat of the fire. His own body was a thing forgotten: nothing existed, save the insubstantial essence of his being and the strange tide it rode. He was a mote blown on the wind; a fetus wrapped in uterine peace. Time was meaningless. He felt afraid, and then calm, and then felt nothing.
Then, abruptly, reality impinged and he staggered, his knees weak, his head reeling as he fell against the sorcerer and Menelian let go his hands to take him securely by the shoulders and turn him slowly round until he was lowered into a chair. The image of a babe, newborn and protesting its descent from the security of the womb, imposed itself on his mind and he thought perhaps he wailed the same blind protest. For long moments his vision was blurred, the almond scent strong in his nostrils as he shuddered uncontrollably, experiencing an indefinable sense of loss. He fought the tremors, drawing shaking hands across his eyes, feeling the dampness of shed tears,
and gradually his sight returned to normal.
The fire still burned cheerfully in the hearth; sunlight still shone radiant on polished wood and scattered scrolls, the ancient leather of books’ bindings. Menelian once more sat across the table and through the window he heard the clamor of steel on steel. Within himself he felt no difference, no sense of power, only that strange sensation of loss. He shivered and faced the mage, seeing the violet eyes observing him gravely.
“Well?”
The single word sounded harsh and nervous. Menelian studied him a moment longer, then frowned, doubt showing in his eyes.
“There is power in you, of that there can be no doubt.” The sorcerer’s voice was soft with a kind of wonder, trailing off as though he felt unsure of himself, uncertain of the ground he trod, or that he had explored. “Not such as I possess, or any other mage I know.”
“Then I am not a sorcerer, nor can be?”
It seemed to him he said it with relief—better, somehow, to be an ordinary man, no matter the odds weighted against such mere mortality.
Relief dissipated as Menelian shook his head, less in negation than doubt, or wonder.
“Did you apply yourself, perhaps.”
There was trepidation now: it appeared the mage had observed something that . . . Calandryll was not sure . . . frightened him, perhaps, from the uneasy set of his features, the hesitation in his voice.
“What? What have you seen in me?”
Menelian’s frown deepened, twinned creases rising vertical on his smooth forehead. He licked his lips, pausing as though he selected his words. Then: “I saw in you a power I cannot define. It seemed as if I looked into the core of the world—or the stuff from which the First Gods fashioned worlds. It is not such power as we sorcerers possess, but something stronger, something . . . primal; raw . . . an energy beyond naming.”
He halted again. Calandryll felt a dryness in his mouth, a great desire for wine. The sense of loss defined itself: he was, in a manner he could not understand or articulate, no longer himself. No longer simply Calandryll den Karynth. A ragged breath burst from between his compressed lips, almost a cry of mourning. He forced himself to speak again.
