“Why does this one seem strange to you, Mage-lady?”
“You dress like a dancer playing at being a warrior, you fight like a friggin’ guard-troop all by yourself—then you get sick afterwards because you killed someone. You wear silks that would do a harlot proud, but you ride a mare that’s a damn trained killer. What are you, boy? What land spawned something like you?”
“This one comes from far—a great distance to the west and south. It is not likely that you have ever heard of the People, Mage-lady. The Guard-serjant had not. As for why this one is the way he is—this one follows A Way.”
“The Way?”
“No, Mage-lady, ‘A Way.’ The People believe that there are many such Ways, and ours is of no more merit than any other. Our way is the Way of Balance.”
“You said something about ‘Balance’ before—” Now Martis’ curiosity was truly aroused. “Just what does this Way entail?”
“It is simplicity. One must strive to achieve Balance in all things in one’s life. This one—is on a kind of pilgrimage to find such Balance, to find a place where this one may fit within the pattern of All. Because this one’s nature is such that he does well to live by the sword, he must strive to counter this by using that sword in the service of peace—and to cultivate peace in other aspects of his life. And, in part, it must be admitted that this one fosters a helpless outer aspect,” Lyran smiled wryly. “The Mage-lady will agree that appearing ineffectual does much to throw the opponent off his guard. So—that is the what of this one. As to the why—the People believe that the better one achieves Balance, the better one will be reborn.”
“I certainly hope you don’t include good and evil in your Balance—either that, or I’ll do the cooking from now on.” Lyran laughed.
“No Mage-lady, for how could one weigh ‘good’ and ‘evil’? Assuredly, it was ‘good’ that this one slew your foes, but was it not ‘evil’ to them? Sometimes things are plainly one or the other, but too often it depends upon where one stands one’s own self. A primary tenet of our Way is to do no harm when at all possible—to wound, rather than kill, subdue rather than wound, reason rather than subdue, and recall when reasoning that the other may have the right of it.”
“Simple to state, but—”
“Ai, difficult to live by. It would seem that most things worth having are wrapped in difficulty. Have you not spent your life in magecraft, and yet still learn? And does this not set you farther apart from others—sacrificing knowledge for the common ties of life?”
Martis scrutinized her companion across the flames. Not so young, after all. Not nearly so young as she had thought—nor so simple. It was only the slight build, the guileless eyes, the innocence of the heart-shaped face that made you think “child.” And attractive too. Damned attractive . . . “Don’t be a fool,” she scolded herself. “You haven’t the time or energy to waste—besides, he’s young enough to be your son. Well, maybe not your son. But too damned young for the likes of you! Hellfires! You have more to think about than a sweet-faced hireling! Get your mind back to business.”
“Before we sleep, I’m intending to gather power as I was doing on the road,” she stretched a little. “I want you to rouse me when the moon rises.”
“Mage-lady—would quiet chanting disturb you?” Lyran asked anxiously. “This one would offer words for those slain.”
“Whatever for? They wouldn’t have mourned you!” Once again, Lyran had surprised her.
“That is their Way, not this one’s. If one does not mourn that one has slain, the heart soon dies. Under other circumstances, might they not have been comrades?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Martis replied thoughtfully. “No, chanting isn’t going to disturb me any. Just make sure you also keep a good watch out for any more surprises.”
“Of a certainty, Mage-lady.” Lyran didn’t even seem annoyed at the needless admonition, a fact that made Martis even more thoughtful. Professional mercenaries she’d known in the past tended to get a bit touchy about mages giving them “orders” like she’d just given him. Nothing much seemed to ruffle that serene exterior. How long, she wondered, had it taken him to achieve that kind of mind-set? And what kind of discipline had produced it? A puzzle; truly a puzzle.
The next day brought them to a ring of standing stones—the Gate-site. The inherent magic residing in this place made it possible to use it as a kind of bridge to almost any other place on the earth’s surface. Martis had been to Kelven’s tower once, and with mage-habit had memorized the lay of the land surrounding it. They would be able to ride straight from here to there once the proper spell was set into motion. This would have another benefit, besides saving them a long and tiring journey; Kelven would “lose” them if he had been tracking them, and without knowing exactly where to look for them, would not know how many of them had survived his attack. They rested undisturbed that evening, with Martis quickly regaining from the place the energy she spent in shielding their presence there.
The Gate spell took the better part of the next morning to set up. Martis had no intentions of bringing them in very near, for she had other notions as to how she wanted this confrontation to be played out. After a light noon meal, she activated the Gate.
The standing stones began to glow, not from within, but as if an unquenchable fire burned along their surfaces. The fire from each reached out to join with the fires of the stones on either side. Before an hour had passed, the ring was a near-solid thing of pulsating orange light.
Martis waited until the power-flux built to an internal drawing that was well-nigh unendurable—then led them at a gallop between two of the stones. They rode in through one side—but not out the other.
They emerged in the vicinity of Kelven’s tower—and the confrontation Martis had been dreading was at hand.
She wasn’t sure whether the fact that there had been no attempt to block them at the Gate was good or bad. It could be that Kelven was having second thoughts about the situation, and would be ready to be persuaded to amend his ways. It also could be that he was taking no further chances on the skills of underlings or working at a distance, and was planning to eliminate her himself in a sorcerers’ duel.
They rode through country that was fairly wild and heavily wooded, but Kelven’s tower lay beyond where the woods ended, at the edge of a grass-plain. Martis described the situation to Lyran, who listened attentively, then fell silent. Martis was not inclined to break that silence, lost in her own contemplations.
“Mage-lady—” Lyran broke into Martis’ thoughts not long before they were to reach Kelven’s stronghold. “—is it possible that the Mage-lord may not know about the continued survival of this one?”
“It’s more than possible, it’s likely,” Martis told him. “I’ve been shielding our movements ever since the attack.”
“But would you have gone on if this one had fallen? Would it not have been more likely that you would return to the Guild Hall to seek other guards?”
They had stopped on the crest of a ridge. Below them lay grasslands and scrub forest that stretched for furlongs in all directions but the one they had come.
Kelven’s tower was easily seen from here, and about an hour’s distance away. The sun beat down on their heads, and insects droned lazily. The scene seemed ridiculously incongruous as a site of imminent conflict.
Martis laughed—a sound that held no trace of humor. “Anybody else but me would do just that. But I’m stubborn, and I’ve got a rotten temper. Kelven knows that. He watched me drag myself and two pupils—he was one of them—through a stinking, bug-infested bog once, with no guides and no bodyguards. The guides had been killed and the guards were in no shape to follow us, y’see; we’d been attacked by a Nightmare. I was, by-Zaila, not going to let it get away back to its lair! By the time we found it I was so mad that I fried the entire herd at the lair by myself. If you’d been killed back there, I’d be out for blood—or at least a damn convincing show of repentance. And I wouldn’t l
et a little thing like having no other guard stand in my way.”
“Then let this one propose a plan, Mage-lady. The land below is much like this one’s homeland. It would be possible to slip away from you and make one’s way hidden in the tall grass—and this one has another weapon than a sling.” From his saddlebag Lyran took a small, but obviously strong bow, unstrung, and a quiverful of short arrows. “The weapon is too powerful to use for hunting, Mage-lady, unless one were hunting larger creatures than rabbits and birds. This one could remain within bow-shot, but unknown to the Mage-lord, if you wished.”
“I’m glad you thought of that, and I think it’s more than a good idea,” Martis said, gazing at the tower. Several new thoughts had occurred to her, none of them pleasant. It was entirely possible that Kelven wanted her here, had allowed them to walk into a trap. “If nothing else—this is an order. If Kelven takes me captive—shoot me. Shoot to kill. Get him too, if you can, but make sure you kill me. There’s too many ways he could use me, and anyone can be broken, if the mage has time enough. I can bind my own death-energy before he can use it—I think.”
Lyran nodded, and slipped off his mare. He rearranged saddle-pad and pack to make it appear that Martis was using the ill-tempered beast as a pack animal. In the time it took for Martis to gather up the mare’s reins, he had vanished into the grassland without a trace.
Martis rode towards the tower as slowly as she could, giving Lyran plenty of time to keep up with the horses and still remain hidden.
She could see as she came closer to the tower that there was at least one uncertainty that was out of the way. She’d not have to call challenge to bring Kelven out of his tower—he was already waiting for her. Perhaps, she thought with a brightening of hope, this meant he was willing to cooperate.
When Lyran saw, after taking cover in a stand of scrub, that the mage Kelven had come out of his tower to wait for Martis, he lost no time in getting himself positioned within bowshot. He actually beat the sorceress’ arrival by several moments. The spot he’d chosen, beneath a bush just at the edge of the mowed area that surrounded the tower, was ideal in all respects but one—since it was upwind of where the mage stood, he would be unable to hear them speak. He only hoped he’d be able to read the mage’s intentions from his actions.
There were small things to alert a watcher to the intent of a mage to attack—provided the onlooker knew exactly what to look for. Before leaving, Trebenth had briefed him carefully on the signs to watch for warning of an attack by magic without proper challenge being issued. Lyran only hoped that his own eyes and instincts would be quick enough.
****
“Greetings, Martis,” Kelven said evenly, his voice giving no clue as to his mindset.
Martis was a little uneasy to see that he’d taken to dressing in stark, unrelieved black. The Kelven she remembered had taken an innocent pleasure in dressing like a peacock. For the rest, he didn’t look much different from when he’d been her student—he’d grown a beard and moustache, whose black hue did not quite match his dark brown hair. His narrow face still reminded her of a hawk’s, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. She looked closer at him, and was alarmed to see that his pupils were dilated such that there was very little to be seen of the brown irises. Drugs sometimes produced that effect—particularly the drugs associated with blood-magic.
“Greetings, Kelven. The tales we hear of you are not good these days,” she said carefully, dismounting and approaching him, trying to look stern and angry.
“Tales. Yes, those old women on the Council are fond of tales. I gather they’ve sent you to bring the erring sheep back into the fold?” he said. She couldn’t tell if he was sneering.
“Kelven, the course you’re set on can do no one any good,” she faltered a little, a recollection of Kelven seated contentedly at her feet suddenly springing to mind. He’d been so like a son—this new Kelven must be some kind of aberration! “Please—you were a good student; one of my best. There must be a lot of good in you still, and you have the potential to reach Masterclass if you put your mind to it.” She was uncomfortably aware that she was pleading, and an odd corner of her mind noted the buzzing drone of the insects in the grass behind her. “I was very fond of you, you know I was—I’ll speak for you, if you want. You can ‘come back to the fold,’ as you put it, with no one to hold the past against you. But you must also know that no matter how far you go, there’s only one end for a practitioner of blood-magic. And you must know that if I can’t persuade you, I have to stop you.”
There was a coldness about him that made her recoil a little from him—the ice of one who had divorced himself from humankind. She found herself longing to see just a hint of the old Kelven; one tiny glimpse to prove he wasn’t as far gone as she feared he must be. But it seemed no such remnant existed.
“Really?” he smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
Any weapon of magic she would have been prepared for. The last thing she ever would have expected was the dagger in his hand. She stared at the flash of light off the steel as he lifted it, too dumbfounded to do more than raise her hands against it in an ineffectual attempt at defense.
His attack was completed before she’d done more than register the fact that he was making it.
“First you have to beat me, teacher,” he said viciously, as he took the single step between them and plunged it into her breast.
She staggered back from the shock and pain, all breath and thought driven from her.
“I’m no match for you in a sorcerer’s duel—” he said, a cruel smile curving his lips as his hands moved in the spell to steal her dying power from her, “—not yet—but I’ll be the match of any of you with all I shall gain from your death!”
Incredibly, he had moved like a striking snake, his every movement preplanned—all this had taken place in the space of a few eyeblinks. She crumpled to the ground with a gasp of agony, both hands clutching ineffectually at the hilt. The pain and shock ripped away her ability to think, even to set into motion the spell she’d set to lock her dying energy away from his use. Blood trickled hotly between her fingers, as her throat closed against the words she had meant to speak to set a death-binding against him. She could only endure the hot agony, and the knowledge that she had failed—and then looked up in time to see three arrows strike him almost simultaneously, two in the chest, the third in the throat. Her hands clenched on the dagger hilt as he collapsed on top of her with a strangling gurgle. Agony drove her down into darkness.
Her last conscious thought was of gratitude to Lyran.
There were frogs and insects singing, which seemed odd to Martis. No one mentioned frogs or insects in any version of the afterlife that she’d ever heard. As her hearing improved, she could hear nightbirds in the distance, and close at hand, the sound of a fire and the stirring of nearby horses. That definitely did not fit in with the afterlife—unless one counted Hellfires, and this certainly didn’t sound big enough to be one of those. Her eyes opened slowly, gritty and sore, and not focusing well.
Lyran sat by her side, anxiety lining his brow and exhaustion graying his face.
“Either I’m alive,” Martis coughed, “or you’re dead—and I don’t remember you being dead.”
“You live, Mage-lady—but it was a very near thing. Almost, I did not reach you in time. You are fortunate that sorcerers are not weapons-trained—no swordsman would have missed your heart as he did.”
“Martis. My name is Martis—you’ve earned the right to use it.” Martis coughed again, amazed that there was so little pain—that the worst she felt was a vague ache in her lungs, a dreamy lassitude and profound weakness. “Why am I still alive? Even if he missed the heart, that blow was enough to kill. You’re no Healer—” she paused, all that Lyran had told her about his “Way” running through her mind, “—are you?”
“As my hands deal death, so they must also preserve life,” Lyran replied. “Yes, among my People, all who live by weapons are also trained as
Healers, even as Healers must learn to use weapons, if only to defend themselves and the wounded upon the field of battle.”
He rubbed eyes that looked as red and sore as her own felt. “Since I am not Healer-born, it was hard, very hard. I am nearly as weak as you as a consequence. It will be many days before I regain my former competence, my energy, or my strength. It is well you have no more enemies that I must face, for I would do so, I fear, on my hands and knees!”
Martis frowned. “You aren’t talking the way you used to.”
Lyran chuckled. “It is said that even when at the point of death the Mage will observe and record—and question. Yes, I use familiar speech with you, my Mage-lady. The Healing for one not born to the Gift is not like yours—I sent my soul into your body to heal it; for a time we were one. That is why I am so wearied. You are part of myself as a consequence—and I now speak to you as one of my People.”
“Thank the gods. I was getting very tired of your everlasting ‘this one’s.’” They laughed weakly together, before Martis broke off with another fit of coughing.
“What happens to you when we get back to the Guild-hold?” Martis asked presently.
“My continued employment by the Guild was dependent on your satisfaction with my performance,” Lyran replied. “Since I assume that you are satisfied—”
“I’m alive, aren’t I? The mission succeeded. I’m a good bit more than merely ‘satisfied’ with the outcome.”
“Then I believe I am to become part of the regular staff, to be assigned to whatever mage happens to need a guard. And—I think here I have found what I sought; the place where my sword may serve peace, the place the Way has designed for me.” Despite his contented words, his eyes looked wistful.
Martis was feeling unwontedly sensitive to the nuances in his expression. There was something behind those words she had not expected—hope—longing? And—directed at her?
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