by Angus Wells
The ugly little sorcerer held her heart, and thus held her in sway, his to command on threat of destruction. That he would order her to follow, she did not doubt; that he lusted still for revenge, she did not doubt. But should she secure him the Arcanum . . . what then? Would he, like this other, seek to raise the Mad God? Did she want that?
It felt strange to ponder such matters, as if the fate of the world lay in her hands. This world she knew; such a world as Tharn would make, were he resurrected, would surely be a stranger place. And could the Mad God feel gratitude for those who brought him back? She smiled, wryly, thinking that a priest might better answer those musings than a heartless courtesan, a revenant created by fell magic. Indeed—her smile became a cynical chuckle—a priest, whether of Burash or Dera or the tree god, Ahrd, would likely condemn her out of hand, for all her existence was Anomius’s doing, and she no say in it, save to obey.
She thought then, her smile dying, what concern of hers was the world? It had treated her unkind enough, and why should she hesitate to advise her master that the Arcanum was the goal of her quarry’s quest? But still she did, for reasons she could neither articulate nor define.
She had the knowledge now, but what was she to do with it? Anomius yet held her heart, and even though he rode with the Tyrant’s army, and could not, without consent of the Tyrant’s Sorcerers, return to Nhur-jabal, still there must come a time. And then, did she hold back this truth, surely he would snuff out her existence, spitefully. But if she told him, would the world she knew end? Did she bring him the Arcanum, would he still have use for her, or cast her off, redundant?
It was an imponderable problem, a thing of doubts and ethics, which she was ill-equipped to consider. To Cennaire, life was a simple matter of pleasure’s attainment and the avoidance of pain; and were the Mad God raised, she did not know which might take precedence. She felt certain of only three things: that Anomius would want the Arcanum for his own; that Anomius was mad; and that it was likely impossible to deceive him. And a fourth, she thought, slowly setting down the scrap of silk as she stared into the glassy surface of the mirror—that Anomius holds my heart, and therefore I must be very careful.
Slowly, she began to speak the words he had taught her.
The mirror darkened, then filled with shifting colors even as the air was filled with the sweet scent of almonds. The swirling hues eddied, like colored oils in water, resolving slowly into the sallow features of the mage, all bulbous, wart-pocked nose and pale, demanding eyes. Cennaire leaned closer as he spoke, his voice a whisper.
“What have you learned?”
“Much,” she said. “Things change.”
“Tell me.”
His voice, for all it came rustling and faint, was imperious. Cennaire paused a moment, pink tongue flicking over full lips, then said: “They have left Gannshold for Cuan na’For. They still pursue Daven Tyras, but he is not Daven Tyras.”
“I know this. He is Varent den Tarl, or was.”
“No. Before that he was Rhythamun. He is ancient . . .” She almost said, “older than you, even,” but caught herself. “. . . centuries old, and the grimoire is not a grimoire.”
“What riddle is this? Speak plain, woman, lest you know my anger.”
“This Rhythamun took the shape of Varent den Tarl, that he might secure a chart from the archives in Lysse. He tricked Calandryll and Bracht into traveling to Tezin-dar to secure the Arcanum . . .”
“The Arcanum?” Stark surprise edged the wizard’s voice blade-sharp. He brought his face closer to the glass, his watery eyes wide an instant, then narrowed. “Do you tell me they pursue the Arcanum?”
“You know of it?”
“Of course. What sorcerer has not heard of that book? By all the gods, that tome is power incarnate! Go on.”
“He—Rhythamun—seized it, carried it back to Lysse. They followed him . . .”
“The Vanu woman, she’s with them?”
“Katya, aye. She went with them into Cuan na’For.”
“So, that mystery resolves.” In the glass, Anomius nodded, rubbing at his nose. “Doubtless the hierophants of Vanu scried what was afoot and sent her out. But still the three, only? And into Cuan na’For?”
“Aye, with Rhythamun far ahead, in the shape of Daven Tyras.”
“The easier to cross the grass. Riding northward?”
“So I was told.”
“Ah, quite. By whom?”
“Two Kerns, Gart and Kythan, of Bracht’s clan.”
“How did they know?”
“Bracht sought their aid.”
Cennaire told of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s pledged vengeance and the help the brothers had given, all they had told her. When she was done Anomius grunted and asked, “You’re sure of this?”
She nodded and said, “I employed a decoction to loosen their tongues; such as ensures the truth, without memory after.”
“You let them live?”
He sounded surprised. Cennaire nodded again: “I saw no worth in slaying them. And I was seen with them—had they been found dead there might well be questions asked about me.”
Anomius grunted, tugging for a moment on the hairs that clustered within his nostrils. Cennaire waited.
“So. Gone into Cuan na’For after this Rhythamun, you say?”
“So I learned.”
“Northward,” Anomius murmured thoughtfully. “The Arcanum in Rhythamun’s hands; the three in pursuit. No doubt Rhythamun looks to raise the Mad God, to curry favor with Tharn, Well, he shall not! No, that prize shall be mine!”
“How shall you take it?” Cennaire asked. “Cuan na’For is vast.”
“Cuan na’For is no more than a step along the way.” The wizard’s eyes grew distant as he thought. “Aye, and the Jesseryn Plain, too. Does this Rhythamun look to raise Tharn, then he looks beyond the places known to men. I’d hazard a guess he travels for the Borrhun-maj and beyond.”
“Surely the Borrhun-maj marks the world’s limit.”
“And what should a creature of the bedchamber know of such matters?” Anomius snarled laughter, scornfully dismissing her comment. “The limit of one world is but the beginning of another. Aye, I’ll wager that’s where he goes, and they after him.”
“Do they survive this Lykard woman.”
“They’ve the gods’ own luck. How else did they trick me? It’s my belief they will, but now I know what game’s afoot and can better play my hand.”
Quickly Cennaire asked, “How shall you do that? Do you come to Lysse, or Cuan na’For, to take up the chase?”
The wizard’s ugly face darkened at that and he raised his hands, displaying the bracelets that gleamed dully about his wrists, shaking them as he shook his head.
“I cannot while these cursed ornaments fetter me.”
Before he had opportunity to continue, Cennaire asked, “Where are you now?”
“Marching eastward from Kesham-vaj,” came the sullen answer. “The Tyrant’s chosen to secure his coastline ere we assault Fayne Keep. That shall be our final conquest, he says, and before we go against that fortress, we must take Mherut-yi and the other seaward cities.”
And so cannot return to Nhur-jabal, thought Cennaire, where my heart beats in your magical box. Aloud, she said, “What would you have me do then?”
“Go after them,” said Anomius.
“Not after Rhythamun?”
“No. I begin to perceive a design in this affair. Burash! Had I the freedom of Nhur-jabal’s libraries . . .” He hesitated, delving in his nose. “But no matter—it’s my guess those three are foreordained to hunt him, and so have the better chance of finding him.”
He fell silent, lost for a moment in contemplation. Cennaire thought she had never seen him so uncertain, sensing his plans changed to accommodate this new information. Patiently, she waited for him to speak again, and after a while he ducked his head, muttering to himself, then speaking, louder, to her.
“That must be the way of it: it explains the p
resence of the Vanu woman. Aye, their quest is likely now to take the book from Rhythamun, and if that be their destiny, then they’re the more likely to succeed. In the finding, at least.”
“But not the taking?” Cennaire asked.
Anomius chuckled—a horrid, bubbling sound—and said, “Perhaps; perhaps not. Rhythamun must command powerful magicks to have got so far, and do they confront him, the outcome may go the one way or the other. Whichever, it changes our game.”
“How so?”
Anomius spat contemptuously. “Because the three are now important to me, fool! If foreordained they be, then slaying them loses me a greater prize. I’d have the Arcanum for my own, and now it seems they lead me to it. Aye, they become my allies in this game—like hounds that point me to my prize.”
“Surely they’ll not lend themselves to aid you?”
In the mirror, Anomius ground his yellow teeth. “By all the gods,” he snapped, “am I ever served by fools? Of course they’ll not aid me, do they know what they do. But unwitting, then they shall.”
Cennaire bristled at his insults, concealing her irritation with the long-practiced skill of her old trade, her face calm.
“Listen,” Anomius told her, “Calandryll, Bracht, the Vanu woman, would seem to have some clue to Rhythamun’s direction. If I guess aright, they’re on his trail, and with far better chance than you of finding him. Does he reach the Jesseryn Plain, then likely hell take another’s form and prove the harder to find. So . . . your task now is to join them.”
“Join them?” Cennaire could not conceal her surprise. “I thought you sought their deaths?”
“I did,” came the answer, “before this news. In time, I’ll still have my revenge, but for now they become useful to me. No, you’ll aid them, rather than slay them. You’ll find them and go with them. Stay with them until they find Rhythamun, then take the Arcanum. That above all! If you must slay them to take the book, do it. But the book is the thing! Bring me that and I’ve power beyond imagining. Even leave them live if you must, only bring me that book.”
His excitement was a palpable thing, intense enough it seemed that even separated by so many leagues, by all the width of the Narrow Sea, still Cennaire could smell it flooding out of the mirror. She watched him wipe spittle from his fleshy lips, smiling now, like a miser contemplating his hoard, or a ghoul a grave. Warily, she said, “They’re long gone into Cuan na’For. How shall I find them? How shall I overtake them?”
“They go north,” he answered, “across the grass. If this Lykard woman seeks to revenge herself on Bracht, then they must travel cautiously, and that must surely slow them. I’ll provide you with such a steed as shall outrun the wind itself. As for finding them . . .” He paused, gnawing at his lower lip, then nodded, chuckling. “Aye, they go northward to the Jesseryn Plain, so they must cross the Kess Imbrun. That chasm has few enough crossing places, so they—and Rhythamun, too—will look for the closest, the easiest; and that is the way the Kerns call the Blood Road, the Daggan Vhe. You’ll go there and, the gods willing, arrive before them.”
Cennaire doubted the gods would be willing to fur-ther a design likely to result in their destruction, but that thought she held to herself. To Anomius, she said: “I’ve scant knowledge of Cuan na’For, nor are there roads or towns. How shall I find this Daggan Vhe without delaying to inquire of folk unlikely to bid me ready welcome? And how persuade the three to take me with them?”
“The finding you can leave to me; the persuasion I leave to you. Burash, woman, were you not a courtesan?” Anomius gestured impatiently. “You’ve a horse? If not, go out and purchase one. Time is our enemy now, and I’d not see it wasted. Heed me! Take only what you must—no more than will fill your saddlebags—and on the instant. Ride north along the Gann Pass, and immediately you’re clear of prying eyes use the mirror again. You understand?”
Cennaire said, “I do,” and began to speak again, but the sorcerer waved her silent, ending their communication with an abrupt gesture, so that she could only watch, frowning, as his image wavered, the almond scent wafting once more as the glass cleared, becoming a silver-surfaced vanity, innocent.
She sat a moment, lost in thought, then shrugged, stowing the mirror back in its protective sack. It seemed impossible that she could now catch up with her quarry, and yet Anomius had evinced no doubt that his glamours would bring her to them, or to where they went. She wondered how he might affect that meeting as she began to gather up those things she deemed necessary to her journey.
THE sun stood some little distance past its zenith as she rode her newly purchased horse out through the gates of Gannshold. The soldiery there eyed her appreciatively, their lewd comments ignored, as were the warnings against a lone woman—and especially one so lovely—venturing without escort into Cuan na’For. She was thankful she had bought riding gear in Lysse—breeks of soft brown leather and a tunic to match—for it meant she could sit astride the roan gelding. What equestrian skills she possessed had been learned in childhood, on plodding farm horses, and she doubted her ability to travel far riding sidesaddle, as was more usual for ladies. Indeed, she felt little enthusiasm for this ride at all, for while she was now immune to most of the physical discomforts suffered by those whose lives were governed by a beating heart, still she felt the steady pounding of the saddle against her buttocks as she steered the gelding along the pass.
Walls of sheer grey stone rose to either side, footed with scrubby bushes, the band of sky above streamered with mares’ tails of high cirrus, dotted with the dark shapes of wheeling birds. Cennaire lifted the roan horse to a canter, leaving the city’s north gate behind, proceeding along the flat roadway until the canyon began to rise and Gannshold was lost in the distance. At this time of day there were few enough travelers venturing the pass, and those she encountered she ignored, soon finding herself alone as she climbed a defile that curved around the base of a lesser peak. She slowed there, her mount straining as the altitude began to take effect, though she herself felt no discomfort, and let the animal walk the final league to the egress of the cut. The road widened again here, devolving on a mountain meadow part encircled by a rushing stream; she recognized it from Gart’s and Kythan’s description, seeing here and there mute evidence of the fight in the churned ground and the broken arrows that still littered the grass. This was, she decided, as good a place as any to halt and obey her master.
She reined in, walking the gelding over to the stream, tethering the animal to a larch, and fetching the mirror from the saddlebag.
For a moment, she waited, listening, her preternatural senses telling her she was alone, but still took the precaution of walking in among the trees before she unwrapped the glass and spoke the gramarye.
The scent of almonds joined the resinous perfume of the larches as the mirror’s surface shifted, shimmering colorful, revealing Anomius’s unlovely features, puckered with irritable impatience.
“You take your time, woman.”
In the mountain-girt silence his voice came loud. “I had to buy a horse,” she said defensively, “and ride clear of the city.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the pass. High up, in a meadow.”
“Alone?”
“Aye, nor any near as best I can tell.”
“Good. Hold up the mirror and move it round that I may see.”
She did as he bade her, standing and turning the device in a slow circle, thinking all the while that she had not, known he could see more than her face through the glass, storing that information as she stored all the little tidbits she gleaned, against their future usage.
“It will do,” came his voice. “Now look at me.”
She brought the mirror back before her face. Anomius asked, “You’ve a blade of some kind?”
Cennaire nodded, touching the dagger sheathed on her waist. “A knife,” she said.
“Show me.”
She drew the dagger, holding up the blade.
Anomius nodd
ed and said, “I must teach you another gramarye. Listen now, and carefully.”
He spoke slow syllables, guttural words that seemed torn from deep inside his scrawny chest, the almond scent strengthening with their utterance. Cennaire listened attentively, and then, on his order, repeated each word. They were hard of saying, as though the product of a language designed for tongues other than human, and it took some time before she had them right and Anomius pronounced himself satisfied. Even then, he had her repeat the sentences until they came fluid, the one after the other, in what, to her, was a meaningless babble.
“Good enough,” he declared, and chuckled maliciously. “If not, you’ve a lengthy walk. Now bring your horse where I can see it.”
Cennaire wedged the mirror between a low-slung bough and the trunk of a larch and fetched the gelding from its placid grazing. She brought the horse to stand before the glass, awaiting her master’s further instruction.
“Take out that knife,” he ordered, and she obeyed.
The gelding snickered, stamping fretfully, as if sensing something amiss.
“Hold it firm,” Anomius said, “and speak the gramarye.”
Cennaire began to voice the words, the almond scent thickening, heady, stronger now than the piny smell of the timber or the horse’s drying sweat. In the mirror, Anomius spoke with her, an echo that seemed to lend power to the spell. The gelding ceased its fretting, its head drooping as though the arcane syllables were a soporific.
“Kill it,” said the sorcerer. “Cut its throat and repeat the gramarye as you do it.”
She took hold of the gelding’s halter and drew the knife, once more mouthing the words as she drove the blade deep into the animal’s neck, severing the great artery there. The horse shuddered, air whistling from its flared nostrils. Blood spurted in a long, thick jet when Cennaire withdrew the dagger, but the gelding remained on its feet, only trembling, as if the out-flowing of its life was no more irritation than a bothersome fly as she completed the glamour.
