by Angus Wells
He laughed, the sound an avian tittering that flecked the detritus coating his robe with spittle. Cennaire waited, studying his ugly face, wondering, not for the first time since he had slain and resurrected her, if he was mad. It was of little moment: he enjoyed a prominence in Nhur-jabal and a measure of that status spilled over to her profit. She enjoyed that; more, she enjoyed the power he had given her. And he held her heart—held, therefore, the key to her existence.
“Fools,” he muttered when his laughter ceased. “Did they not think I’d know? And protect myself? Their glamours are as naught compared with mine and so, my lovely huntress, I am neither surprised nor unduly alarmed that they plot against me—in time I shall take my revenge. Meanwhile, when word comes from Vishat’yi that Menelian is dead they’ll have some inkling of what they face.”
Cennaire frowned at this, folding hands still stained with the mage’s blood on her thighs. “Might they not then move against me?” she asked. “I was able to defeat Menelian easily enough, but several, acting in concert . . .”
“You shall be gone to Lysse.” Anomius waved a casual hand, exposing discolored teeth in a smile she supposed was intended to reassure. “Safe from their magicks. Our quarry departed for Aldarin, you say? And on a warboat out of Vanu?”
Cennaire nodded. “So Menelian claimed.”
Sallow lips pursed thoughtfully as a grubby finger dug at a nostril. “The man they seek is Varent den Tarl,” he said at last, flicking his finger. “The one who first employed them to find the grimoire. That much I knew, but this matter of the Vanu folk is interesting.”
“Menelian said only that they sailed together,” Cennaire offered, adding, “he lusted after the woman.”
The wizard’s watery blue gaze moved over her face and form appraisingly, the smile that accompanied his examination almost mocking. “But not after you,” he whispered, “which, I sense, annoyed you.”
Cennaire met his eyes unflinching. His smile grew broader, then faded. “No matter—do with her what you will. Only find Calandryll den Karynth and the Kern freesword.”
“I shall,” she promised.
“Aye,” he murmured, less to her than himself, “though they travel to the edges of the world and beyond, I’ve no doubt you’ll hunt them down. But even so . . .”
“What?” she asked, sensing for the first time an element of doubt behind his confidence.
“The Vanu folk,” he replied, shrugging. “What part do they play? Those folk seldom venture farther south than Forshold, and that but rarely. From what you’ve learned it would seem this Katya—and Tekkan, was it?—have joined the game. If Calandryll and Bracht came to Vishat’yi on the Vanu boat with dragon hides to sell, then likely it was that craft brought them to Gessyth. Nothing was said of what they found there?”
“Nothing,” Cennaire confirmed. “Menelian said only that they were friends to Kandahar.”
Anomius grunted, digging again at a nostril. Cennaire, ladylike for all her past, looked away. Sorcerer though he was, and her maker, Anomius was a revolting man.
“Why should Vanu aid them?” he wondered, the question rhetorical. “To suppose their meeting depended only on chance is to accept too much. I know little enough of that land, but I’ve heard talk of shamans there with great powers—might they have arranged this joining of forces? And if they did, then why?”
“Mayhap they, too, seek the grimoire,” Cennaire suggested.
“Mayhap.” Anomius frowned, brow creasing in a myriad of lines as he pondered. “And if they do, it must truly be a tome of immense value. Perhaps even more than Calandryll believed, or”—his expression became menacing with anger—“more than he revealed.”
“Could he have hidden that knowledge from you?”
Cennaire regretted the question as she saw his eyes grow cold with rage at the implied insult. This man had given her the life she now knew, and he could take it from her. Perhaps was the only man who surely could. Behind the fear his stare induced she felt a new thought take shape: perhaps someday she must destroy him to protect herself. But not yet; not until she had explored the limits of her newfound powers, not before she was confident of the victory. She smiled nervously, lowering her head in apology to watch him through the heavy curtain of her lashes, employing all the artistry of her old trade.
Anomius sniffed noisily, not deigning to answer the question. Instead, he said: “Do not slay them before you have the book. Do you understand? Until you have the grimoire safe, you shall not destroy them.”
His voice was fierce and, dutifully, Cennaire nodded. In a subdued voice she asked, “And if they do not have it?”
He studied her a moment, his eyes speculative, and she feared she had gone too far. Then he smiled again, his expression unctuous as he said, “You think ahead, my pretty—aye, it may be they’ve delivered it to their employer and it rests now in the hands of Varent den Tarl. Be that so, you shall slay them—but only if you are certain beyond doubt of the grimoire’s location. Those two are subtle, their stratagems cunning, so be wary! If Varent den Tarl holds the book, then be sure you find him before you take my revenge. Above all I must have the book! Find that before you deal with them; after . . .”
His eyes roved her body, not with such lust as she was accustomed to seeing in men’s eyes, but in contemplation of what she could, in her undead form, achieve, his tittering laughter finishing the sentence clearer than words might.
“So, your task is clear. Go now and bathe, sleep, and tomorrow we shall speak again; before you depart for Aldarin.”
THE river valley that cradled Aldarin was gentler than the craggy heights surrounding Vishat’yi. Vineyards covered the slopes rising from the banks of the slow-moving Alda, the growths bare as yet, though budded with the promise of the bounty to come, and above them the grasslands of Lysse rustled in the breeze, checkered with the dark shapes of browsing cattle. Where the river met the Narrow Sea the city spanned the flow, all blue and gold in the lucid sunlight of the afternoon, its wall standing proud across the river’s mouth, the ramparts extending in two sweeping horns to encompass the bay where ships bobbed on the tide. For all that blockhouses surmounted by the gantries of mangonels stood watch over the anchorage, and the great metal-barred gates looked sturdy enough to withstand the fiercest onslaught, it appeared a peaceful place, a merchant city going about its daily business.
Yet within those walls Calandryll hoped to find Rhythamun; hoped to confront the wizard and wrest from him the Arcanum. How—in a city that honored him as Varent den Tarl, and he possessed of awesome occult powers—Calandryll did not yet know. Only, as the warboat slowed its headlong rush, that he must; and that this felt like coming home.
He turned from his observation as he felt the vessel’s passage ease, no longer propelled by the godly strength of Burash but now by the action of the sea alone, and looked to the waves. Beside him Bracht grunted as grey-green water swirled and the god rose up, wearing man’s shape now, but nonetheless majestic, water running from huge shoulders, the mane of hair a glossy mantle as eyes like the depths of the ocean surveyed the watchers. Katya spoke softly in the Vanu tongue to her father, and Tekkan stared in awe as the great silent voice rang in their minds.
No farther shall I bring you, but go on alone with my blessing.
“Wait!” Calandryll shouted as a hand lifted in gesture of farewell. “We’ve need of you still. How shall we defeat Rhythamun? With all his power, do you not aid us?”
This is not within my aegis, returned the god, you enter my sister Dera’s wardship now. Do you need such aid as we may grant, then call on her.
“And shall she answer?”
If so she chooses. But I may go no farther, lest I trespass upon her domain. Divine laughter echoed through their minds. We gods are jealous of our realms.
“But, Rhythamun . . .”
Calandryll’s cry was silenced by the god’s outthrust hand.
Is a man, for all his powers, no more than flesh laid upon the frame
of his bones. All men may be defeated—to you comes the task of finding how.
At his side, Calandryll heard Bracht mutter, “Gods and sorcerers both, it seems, love riddles.”
The Kern’s presumption alarmed Calandryll and for a moment he feared Burash might take affront, turn all his oceanic wrath upon them. Instead he heard the laughter again, like waves booming in a sea cavern.
Though I be not your god, warrior, still you dare much to speak thus. Would you so dismiss Ahrd?
Bracht, unabashed, shrugged, grinning. “I’d ask of him plain advice,” he answered.
I tell you what I may, Burash said. Think you we gods are free of laws? No—different as we are to mortal men, so are our laws different. Might I bestride the land and take the Arcanum from Rhythamun’s dead hands, do you not think I should take that course? I cannot; that is forbidden me.
“Might Dera, then?” asked Calandryll.
No. Waves lashed as the god’s great head shook. Aid she may give you, if so she elects; but to put an end to Rhythamun . . . No.
“Why not?” Bracht demanded bluntly, ignoring the warning hand Calandryll set upon his arm. “Does Rhythamun succeed, then she and you and Ahrd—all the Younger Gods!—stand threatened by Tharn.”
You speak the truth, Bracht ni Errhyn. The soundless voice was solemn now, the huge head bowing a moment before rising to fasten the great green eyes on the Kern’s defiant face. Mayhap you three hold all our lives in your hands. But still we may not do that which destiny has given you for duty . . . it is forbidden us. This blasphemy Rhythamun would attempt is of man’s making, and by man’s hand it must be ended. Look to your own salvation, not to godly saviors—such aid as is ours to give shall be yours, but no more. Neither question me further, for I depart.
Farewell.
Swift as he had appeared in the cavern, so Burash went, descending beneath the swell that roiled the sea where he had been. From the steering deck Calandryll and the others watched awhile, each locked in the lonely cell of their own thoughts, pondering the import of the god’s words. It was Bracht who broke the silence: “So, we must go alone into the city.”
“Aye.” Calandryll turned his gaze landward. Suddenly Aldarin seemed less welcoming and his voice faltered as he said, “We’ve no other choice.”
“None.” Bracht’s voice was grim, the smile that curved his lips no less so. “As we began, so we return.”
“You forget,” Katya said, “that we are three now. With all my folk at our backs.”
“You I’d not forget.” Bracht shaped a gallant bow. “But still . . .”
“We are scant few against a city that hails Varent den Tarl,” Calandryll finished for him. “Think you we should find the Domm’s ear if we bring him our tale? More likely he’d laugh at us—before ordering us imprisoned. And you’ve some inkling of the powers Rhythamun wields. Likely he’ll know we move against him and employ sortilege to halt us.”
“But still,” Bracht repeated, “we go on.”
His tone held neither doubt nor hesitation and when Calandryll turned to study his face, it was set in determined lines, as if the thought of surrender was an alien thing.
“Mayhap to our deaths,” he said.
Bracht chuckled at that, carelessly, his expression transformed as he clapped Calandryll soundly on the shoulder. “Mayhap,” he agreed cheerfully, “but no man lives forever, so shall that deter us?”
Calandryll stared at him awhile, then he, too, began to chuckle. “No,” he declared. “Never!”
“Never!” echoed Katya, her smile encompassing them both. “Tekkan! To Aldarin we go.”
“And may all those gods we’d save go with us,” the helmsman murmured, then shouted in his own language, calling for his rested crew to take up the sweeps and bring them in to harbor.
THE lean black warboat aroused an interest bordering on consternation as it swept between the defensive horns that encircled the anchorage. The mangonels mounted on the blockhouses were visibly sighted in as they approached, and long before Tekkan called for his oarsmen to slow their speed and let the craft drift in beside a wharf, archers were lined along the moles with bows drawn, pikemen standing at the ready behind them.
Calandryll, with Bracht and Katya, took position at the prow, holding firm to the arching neck of the dragonshead, shouting in Lyssian that they were come peacefully, with no intent to harm.
Into his ear, Bracht murmured, “Likely Rhythamun will hear of this ere long,”
Calandryll nodded, looking to where the soldiery waited, wondering for a moment if he had been better advised to request of Burash that the god put them ashore in some bay farther up the coast, and they trek overland to the city. No, he decided, for if Rhythamun protected himself with gramaryes, then the sorcerer would learn of their arrival, however they chose to approach him. Their best hope—perhaps their only hope—lay in relying on the wizard’s confidence, in trusting that he believed them entrapped deep in the wastes of Gessyth.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “Or perhaps he believes us lost in Tezin-dar. Whichever, we are here now and can go only forward.”
“Spoken like a warrior of Cuan na’For,” Bracht complimented.
“But cautiously,” Katya warned. “Does he believe us trapped in the lost city, then we hold an advantage we shall lose if we go headlong forward.”
“Aye,” Calandryll agreed, “we’d best disguise ourselves and scout the way before attempting to confront him.”
Bracht shrugged, grinning wickedly. “There are more ways than one to advance into battle,” he murmured, “and stealth is a warrior’s friend.”
So it was that they hung back, seeking to lose themselves among the crew as Tekkan spoke with the captain of the harbor guard, improvising a story that had the warboat roaming southward from Vanu for reasons of trade and exploration, blown off course by storms and wanting only to lay over in Aldarin awhile to rest the crew before continuing home. Even in Lysse’s mild clime the changing season put a chill in the air and the Vanu folk had donned cloaks of shaggy fur and oiled cloth, so it was not difficult for the three to go unnoticed as the helmsman spun his yarn. Convincingly enough, it soon became apparent, that the officer accepted they were neither corsairs nor some raiding party out of Kandahar and granted they might anchor there. Calandryll was somewhat surprised to discover Tekkan so adept a liar, and delighted that his glib tongue won them the freedom of the city without further examination. Wrapped in his own cloak, he huddled in the midst of the Vanu folk as they made for a nearby tavern.
It was warm inside, a fire banked in the central hearth, and at this hour the lamps went unlit, the low ceiling and the supporting pillars that divided the room providing a welcome half-light. They gathered to the rear, where shadows hung deepest, ignoring the curious stares of the few other drinkers as hoods were thrown back and the pale blond hair characteristic of the Vanu folk marked them as strangers. Enough thronged between Calandryll and Bracht and the other customers that any spies would have difficulty identifying them, and Tekkan called for ale.
When all were served and the innkeeper’s curiosity satisfied, they settled to discussing their next move.
To go en masse to the palace Rhythamun occupied in his guise as Varent den Tarl could only bring unwanted attention, Calandryll suggested; better to reconnoiter cautiously and learn what they might before approaching the wizard. Bracht gave his support to this, and it was agreed that they would all find quarters in some suitable hostelry before proceeding further.
“Should we not seek Dera’s aid?” Katya wondered.
Calandryll thought a moment before replying, then shook his head. “Perhaps not,” he murmured. “At least not yet. Varent den Tarl is a noble of this place and might well have ears even in the temples.”
“Why should we need a temple?” the woman queried. “Burash came in answer to your call—shall Dera not?”
This was a matter he had pondered at length as the god drove them across the Narrow Sea, without reac
hing any real conclusions: again he shook his head.
“I cannot say, neither if Dera would hear me or how I summoned Burash. I know only that I drowned”—he grimaced at that unpleasant memory— “and that I believed I was doomed. That we all should die there. What summons I sent—what cry I made, or how—I know no better than you.”
“But Menelian spoke of power in you,” she urged, “and Burash, too.”
He shrugged helplessly. “But could not, as I told you, define it. Nor can I—it remains a mystery. I can offer my private prayers to the goddess, but whether or not they will be heard, I cannot say.”
“Try that,” said Bracht. “That we should avoid the temples I agree, but we know something of Rhythamun’s abilities and I’d have whatever aid we can muster when we go against him.”
Calandryll bowed his head in agreement, wishing that Burash had spoken clearer. In this he found himself in concert with the freesword: it seemed that the gods did, indeed, speak in riddles. He felt the resolve that had come with Burash’s intervention waver and he found himself wondering if their quest was foredoomed. The auguries he had heard, the scrying of the spaewives in Secca and Kharasul, the words of the Guardians in Tezin-dar, all spoke of three—Katya, Bracht, and he. But they were merely three mortal folk and now they had come back to Aldarin the quest once more seemed formidable. He was, for all Menelian had said, no sorcerer: he had no magic to use against Rhythamun, and he could not believe that blades were enough to defeat the mage. Neither cunning, for Rhythamun was protected as well by his status in the city as by his occult power. It remained to the elected three to find some way to wrest the Arcanum from the wizard, but he could see no clear path to success in that.
“Do what you can,” he heard Bracht murmur, and realized that he brooded. “No man may do more.”
He essayed a smile in answer to the Kern and said, “Aye. We’ve come too far to falter now.”
