He stared, and then looked away in pain, realizing that since their paths had crossed, Jilain had slain again and again.
And then she shocked him, for she said that which he felt, though she added a qualifier he did not bother with: “There can be nothing wrong in slaying in defense of honor or oneself or others,” Jilain said.
But I introduced you to it, Jarik thought. And I — I enjoy it, the killing. O ye gods and Guide hear and help me — I enjoy it.
It was then he heard Jilain say quietly, “Too, this one has found that she enjoys it. The adventuring, the danger, the … slaying.”
“Killing to no purpose save greed or mere uncontrolled anger is murder,” the god on the earth said, “and is not worthy of humans or gods. Killing to purpose and without remorse is part of the undeniable heritage of your kind and mine. It is stupid to call it wrong, for it is natural to us both. Not all deserve the gift and reward of life. Murderers, for instance.”
The man and the woman gazed at her in silence for a time, and then Snowmist spoke on.
“At any rate. My brothers the Lords of Iron prepared you well, did they — since you did not slay me at all but served me well! Perhaps they are not worth serving, Jarik Blacksword? Perhaps you were mistaken in allegiances?”
“I have no allegiances,” Jarik said, from habit, because he was Jarik. “Nor do I serve the Iron Lords. We made a bargain. They left me the Black Sword when surely they could have taken it, and they put me at Kirrensark-wark, that I might exact my vengeance. In turn I agreed to slay you, Lady God — who they said keeps them penned atop Iron Mountain and within that little area about it and Blackiron, that they might not extend their protection to others as they protect that wark called Blackiron.”
“And yet,” She said, who was a god on the earth and yet with mortal human blood in her veins, “they were able to send the iron hawk far asea after you, and a shipload of killers as well.”
Jarik’s face remained tight. He mused miserably, still all cloudy of mind: Aye. But what is true and who is right? Osyr did not strike me dead, as the Pythoness believed he would, that cold black statue. Even learning that I came here to slay Her, the Lady of the Snowmist did not do death on me. And — assuredly that hawk asea was from the Lords of Iron, who most certainly did tell me that their power was limited by Her to that small area along the coast, other side Dragonmount. Who is to know truth from lies? — fact from fiction or fancy, reality from illusion or pretense or … the same sort of blindness that is on those of Kerosyr: the blindness from lack of knowledge? No, no … I know only that I vowed vengeance on a man and did not take it, and had even more reason to kill another man and now cannot. And I know that I vowed to slay Her, this silv’ry god on the earth; I made a bargain with other gods, her kith, and have not kept it. And She has used me!
“You said that you had lived for vengeance and promised to do murder. But Kirrensark lives, on whom you sought vengeance, Jarik. And you and he are fighting-comrades and — friends? And I too live, unmurdered.”
“Aye,” he said, dull of voice. “In all my life, as I see it now clear, I have done naught. I have accomplished but one goal I set out to reach. The Rod of Osyr. But that was not my goal; I did not want it or want to fetch it either! I obtained it and brought it to you — brought it to the enemy of the Iron Lords I made bargain with!”
Jilain’s rose-pink skirt rippled as she swung her legs off her chair to the floor, and leaned close to lay a hand on his arm.
“Jarik … ”
Calmly Snowmist’s voice overrode them both. “There have been other accomplishments, Jarik Blacksword. For one thing, you have the Sword. And — ”
“I have not the Black Sword! It was taken from me in your keep!”
“We both know that you set it aside and no one took it from you, Jarik Blacksword, just as we both know that no one can take that Sword from you and keep it, when you want it!”
He looked at her. “And if I call it to me? No stone wall will prevent its coming?”
“No, but that is not of — ” She broke off, for she saw that he had stiffened and closed his eyes. With a sigh that was less than godly, She leaned back and waited. It was She who had shown him that property of the Black Sword. It was She who had told him it was his, peculiarly and specifically his; attuned to him. It was She who had shown him that he could call the Sword to him, not the Iron Lords. They had been content to let him keep it, since he was a needful gullible to send forth on their errand of assassination. But they had not apprised him of all the Sword’s worth and properties! No, not Nershehir, Seyulshehir and Eskeshehir!
Jarik heard Jilain draw in her breath, with a hiss. He opened his eyes and turned his head in time to see the Black Sword come floating to him, hilt foremost. A thing of iron-like god-metal that winglessly winged to him on a course straight as a bow-sped arrow. He did not put out his hand to take it, because of Her and, like a faithful dog, sleek and black and obedient and loving, it lay down at his feet.
Then Jarik gazed at the eyeslits of the mask of the Lady of the Snowmist.
“No, Lady God. My taking the Sword was little accomplishment. My taking it brought about the deaths of three in the village of Blackiron and perhaps another as well. For with the Sword in my hands it did not warn the Iron Lords that Blackiron was under Hawker attack, until I returned there with it.”
“Still I dispute your determined persistence in wallowing in misery, Jarik Blacksword,” She said. “Considering your words ‘in all my life’ — Jarik, Jarik! It has been a very short life indeed. You have hardly begun this your life.”
Jarik felt tension tighten him. He was far from comfortable and far from trusting. Perhaps now, he thought, they had come to the real reason for his being here, and the real meaning of the words She had just spoken. For who could trust this Lady of the — who could trust the words of gods?
“And there is much life ahead,” Jilain Kerosyris said, “and many accomplishments!”
“Is there?” he asked, staring at the helm-and-mask of a god with the powers of a god. “Or is my life to end now and here?”
“It is not!” The argent voice of the Lady of the Snowmist was vehement. “No! Nor is the end of your life any time soon, if I can prevent it, Jarik Blacksword!”
“And if this one can prevent it!”
Chapter Thirteen
Yes,’tis my dire misfortune now
To hang between two ties,
To hold within my furrowed brow
The earth’s clay, and the skies.
— Victor Hugo
Jarik had leaned back in a release of tension — some of it. “And what will yourself do now, Lady God, now that yourself has the White Rod of Osyr?”
“It is accomplishing its purpose. It has accomplished its purpose.”
“Has?” Jilain echoed.
The Lady of the Snowmist leaned forward with much rustling scintillance of body-hugging armor, and set an elbow on her mailed knee. She lifted a finger that She did not quite point at that orphan of the storm She guested.
“The Rod of Osyr is not necessary to me, Jarik, although now it will serve Kirrensark-wark below. It is our gift to them, and they are good and deserving.”
He remembered the words of the Iron Lords about the people of their protectorate: … dirt-grubbing hands of those stupid villagers below … and he could not help comparing. He wished desperately that he could be sure. Why had not the Guide, who told him so much and so little, told him also whom to trust, among gods who said conflicting things to him?
“Though I should not want that wand in the hands of Others,” She was saying on. “No, the White Rod was merely the means to send you to the Isle of Osyr, with purpose.”
He was frowning in new incomprehension. “Why?”
“That you might return with Jilain, Jarik Blacksword, and be made whole thereby … or nearly.”
Both of them stared at Her, and at last Jilain hesitantly said, “Our meeting was ordained? Fore-known? Your
self knew?”
The god straightened. “No. I knew that Jarik of the Black Sword was only partially a man, and that his potential was — is — enormous. His importance — your importance, Jarik. And I saw that there was that on the isle called Osyr’s that would make him more a man, more nearly whole; hale. Now consider. How could that have been accomplished by stealing that white wand of a god? Or the golden chain? How could it have been of personal importance to you, Jarik, to slay the python-guard or lie with the Pythoness? Or to bring about the death of the queen called Osyrrain — ”
“This one did that! This one slew her, for Osyr and for Jairik.”
“It would not have happened,” he said, “if I had not been there … to bring about more deaths, and to disrupt your life.”
“Jarik!” Abruptly the mailed god flexed to her feet to stand over him in the magnificence that was simultaneously womanly and godly. “Jarik! Your way is that of the coward! No — do not rise in anger, you! Hear me. The coward’s way: First you knock yourself down, and then you apply kicks to that groveling victim of yours — you! Think on that! Do you enjoy being miserable? Be in no haste to deny it, but first use your brain!”
Both of them stared up at Her, who seemed now twice the height of any man, looming over them all slim and womanly in silver and grey and the color of snow asparkle in the sun.
“At any rate,” She said, “it is surely obvious: that which was of great importance to the life of Jarik Blacksword on that island was … you, Jilain.”
Jarik wanted very much to stand and not have to stare up and up at the god standing so near, but just now he dared not. “You order me to remain seated, my lady Snowmist, and so I do, but I like not this craning my neck! Now why sh — ”
“Not even for a god, Jarik Blacksword?” She said, and they could hear the smile in her voice.
This time it was Jarik who ignored her words, as She had earlier ignored words of his. “Now why should you have care to whatever is of great importance to me, Lady God?”
The Lady of the Snowmist turned and walked behind the seeming great moss-covered stone that was her chair, and She swung to place both hands on its back so that he knew She was staring intensely at him.
“Because, Jarik, you are important to the War. And that makes you of inestimable importance to me — and to all the world.”
Now Jarik stood. “The … the war? Which war — what war?”
“The War that has continued for centuries, Jarik Blacksword, and which remains still in the balance. The War in which I am but one of the soldiers — as are the Iron Lords.”
“What,” Jilain Kerosyris asked, “is war?”
“Oh my child!” And armor rustled and flashed with swift movements then, for the god on the earth hurried to Jilain and bent to embrace her. Jilain was stiff in astonishment, and yet even then she was aware: the armor was chill to the touch, but somehow did not feel hard and cold and cruel, this metal covering people wore to protect them from other people.
Snowmist straightened; paced; resumed her seat so as to face them both.
“Jarik? That question you can answer.”
Jarik pulled a deep breath and let it out slowly. He turned to the woman who was so innocent — and who was such a warrior, and fighter, and killer.
“Out on the sea, Jilain, we fought a small battle — small, because you won it before it was joined. This morning in the wark we fought in a battle. A battle is a mass fight with something at stake, and a battle is but a part of a war. A war is between two great groups of individuals, and … were another to seek to own Kerosyr, possess it by taking it, and the Guardians of Osyr fought, that would be war.” He looked from her as she nodded — frowning. “And Lady, there are ever wars in the world, are there not? It is the way of us and even of some insects. Wars for this or that land or, or principle, food or growing-or grazing-land. But a war that has you said lasted for centuries … how can that be? What are the stakes — what the cause?”
“The stakes, Jarik Blacksword, are you.”
“A war over Jairik?”
“Aye. And you, Jilain, and Kirrensark too, and those on the ship who attacked you, and the Guardians also. For the stakes in this War are all humankind.”
Jilain touched herself between her breasts. “All of us?” Jarik seemed to sag. “I … see. By taking it, by arming myself with — with this,” he said, leaning down to close his hand around the hilt and lift the Black Sword, “I stepped all unwittingly into a War between gods … between yourself and the Iron Lords!”
“You see well, Jarik. You are perceptive. It is true, but there is more too. More than you can see. There is more than you know, for there is more than I know. To begin with, there are others. Other gods, beyond only the Lords of Iron and me. There are other gods. The time has come to extend this ancient War. To wage war among the gods on the earth, rather than fight skirmishes and wage a holding action. They are taking it beyond that point. We must seek to do that which must be done.”
“We?” Jarik asked, and Jilain said, “Whick is what? — that whick must be done, this one means?”
“Aye, Jarik, we. The War in which the plots of Iron Lords are but one part of the conflict, one war-front among many. That which must be done, Jilain … oh my dear, that is the paradox and the problem! What must be accomplished is the destruction of the Forces of Destruction.” The phrase rang leadenly in the air of Snowmist Keep. The Forces of Destruction.
Frowning, Jarik said, “Yourself speaks of the Iron Lords? Only a part of a conflict? I know those gods, Lady Karahshisar, in their armor and masks of black iron, whose swords spit fire to consume living men and dead alike. Yourself said the Forces of Destruction. The Iron Lords, then? For their names are Dread, and Annihilation, and … the Lord of Destruction.”
“I speak of them Jarik, aye. And of a king enthroned … at least one, though there may be more subverted, for I know far from all there is to know. And others, others. The Forces of Destruction; gods and humans combined and allied. Their purpose is to destroy.”
Peaceful Kerosyr basking in the sun in the middle of the sea, Jilain thought, and was not sure whether the thought was wistful or no.
Jarik smiled, grimly and satirically. “A king enthroned. And perhaps others, you say. I have never seen a king. Kirrensark, and Ishparshule and Ahl and other wark-lordlings … yourself, neither a queen nor a king; the Iron Lords who are gods like unto yourself and not kings, for they have no kingdom; a stone god of a few people on a little island and a queen over a few women on that single little isle sleeping on the sea. But no king have I seen.”
“I would that you would, Jarik of the Black Sword!” The tone of Her was intense, the silver of her voice gone hard and ringing. “Aye, I would that you would see a king!”
“And there are others?” he said, grasping for the concept, seeking her meaning and wondering at its width. “Others, you said, in this … this Forces of Destruction?”
“Aye.” She held up her mailed hands, and ticked them off on her fingers, as She called their names:
“The Lords of Fire, who are three in number.
“And the Lord and Lady Cerulean — which is the color of the sky, and of cold fire.
“The Fog Lords, whose number I know not.
“And Lady Tiger, who controls both the Baron of Indwell and Milord Rhune of Bluehills.
“The King of Taris, and his satrap the Lord Emos Severak, of Vasteris, in Taris. And Trilithon Teg.”
“So many,” Jilain breathed, for the world must be large indeed.
“I know none of those names!” Jarik said, and knew that there was much world, and that he had seen little of it.
“Aye,” She said. “And they have foes, those who are pitted against them. Be thankful for that! Their foes are on the side of you, Jarik, and you, Jilain, I swear it on my life; for those others would destroy all of your kind; all of the anthro-men. For there are other kinds of … men, and women.”
“Other kinds of humans?”
Jilain said, glancing at Jarik and wondering what another kind might be like.
The god-helm shook. “I did not say that, Jilain. I said other kinds of men and women. I did not say that they were humans.”
And while Jilain felt a chill at that, Jarik was nodding, his fingers toying with the red-wrapped hilt of the Black Sword.
“I have heard it said that there are such,” he said. “Experiments of the gods, it is said.”
“That, Jarik O Jarik of the Black Sword and the two minds, is far more precisely true than you know. Experiments of the gods. Yes.”
Jilain said, “And opposed by others? Allies of … yours, Lady God?”
“Yes, Jilain. We are the Gem Lords, who are two;
“Milady Shirajsha of the Web of Silver;
“The Flame Lords and the Queen of the Golden Flame …
“And she who is called Chance and who is not really one of us at all, but is with us and humankind in this struggle;
“Aye, and the Barons of Hilltower and of Dort, and in a way,
“Lord Sadik, for he will not join our enemies and is thus in sore danger from them. And … earthly champions. One called Torsy, who is dead. Aye, Jarik, even Torsy whom you called sister. She would have been important and yet has been important, to you, and perhaps that was her importance. One Rander, I think, though he knows it not. He is younger even than you two and may indeed come to naught, or to death from them. And Kirrensark Long-haft. Aye, oh aye. He whom they, the Others, tried to subvert nigh twenty years ago. They will try for Rander, not yet Blade.
“And the queen of a land I will not name; her name is Xanthis.”
The Lady of the Snowmist paused then, gazing upon them from within her helm-mask of gleaming argent god-metal. “And there are Jarik of the Black Sword and Jilain of Osyr Isle — called Demonslayer now, eh! — who are two and yet one, and yet still another, for you Jarik are two unto yourself! Oh and aye, make no mistake about that other part of you. Oak the InSightful, Oak the Scry-healer, is important!”
The Lady of the Snowmist (War of the Gods on Earth Book 3) Page 15
