Jezzil gripped his sword hilt in suddenly nerveless fingers. Across the smoke-wreathed room, one of the enemy had caught sight of him, shouted an order, and three of them staggered toward him, tripping on the bodies of the slain.
Stay and fight! his brain ordered, but his body would not
listen. Whirling, Jezzil bolted away from them, seeking escape, shelter, refuge—he didn’t want to die! His mind kept yammering at him to obey his training, to turn and fight, but the panic driving his body was too strong. He tripped over something, looked down, saw a severed arm still clutching a sword, and a shriek burst from his throat unbidden.
Reaching an arras, he yanked it aside, searching for a door, but found none. The shouts of the Taenarith warriors came closer and closer, and he knew he was done for, and part of him was glad. He was a coward, after all, and did not deserve to live.
As he edged along the stone wall, gulping desperately at the cleaner air that had been trapped behind the arras, Jezzil saw a hand grab the curtain and jerk it violently. The entire drapery came tumbling down.
The young Chonao closed his eyes as the folds descended, and, with every particle of his being, willed himself to invisibility. It was a silly thing to do, he knew only too well he was no Caster, but in a moment they would see him, and he would be spitted on their blades like a piglet, and he did not want to die, he wanted only to vanish, to disappear, to— The last of the concealing folds pulled free, and the Chonao braced himself to feel steel sheath itself in his vitals.
He had gone beyond fear now, and seemed to be floating somewhere in a state of agonized but passive expectation.
He braced himself …
And nothing happened.
After a few moments Jezzil opened his eyes, only to find himself confronting the three Taenarith. The central one was barely a foot away, his head moving from side to side as he scanned the area where Jezzil was standing. Then turning to the soldier on the right, he growled, “Where’d he go?”
The man he addressed shrugged elaborately, then pointed to the window in the next room with a questioning expression.
It was only then that Jezzil realized what was happening, and that knowledge shook him to his core.
They couldn’t see him.
By Arenar’s balls, they couldn’t see him! He, Jezzil of the Chonao, was a Caster, one who could cloud the mind of others with illusion, make them not-see what was before them.
Some Casters could even Cast illusions and make others see things that were not there. But … how was this possible?
The ability usually surfaced when the Caster was young, ten or twelve …
Jezzil’s mind wavered, then reeled at the knowledge— —and the man before him suddenly blinked, eyes going wide. With a baffled roar, he swung his morningstar. Even as Jezzil’s trained reflexes took over and he dodged and ducked automatically, his mind was spinning and he was trying frantically to regain the Casting.
With a shout, the three Taenarith were after him, and he blundered through the room, tripping over bodies, feeling the flames lick at him from the walls. By now half the fortress must be alight, he realized.
With a last, frantic effort, he dived through the door into the next chamber and went rolling across the floor. Flame seared him; the bedclothes were on fire. Hearing pounding feet approaching the entrance, he concentrated, willing, grasping, and holding that center of passive calm, will beyond conscious thought, fear so great it went beyond panic into strength and calm …
And this time he could feel the Casting settle over him like a muffling blanket of invisibility.
The guards charged into the room and went rampaging around, roaring like dune-cats cheated of prey. Holding the Casting firm in his mind, as he would have gripped the hilt of his sword to defend himself physically, Jezzil rose to his feet, careful to make no sound. He had no idea whether the Casting would cloak him from their ears, but intended to take no chances.
His heart thudding with the effort of holding the Casting around him, sweat pouring off him as though he’d run a league in full armor under a summer sun, he moved cautiously over to the high, barred window. He noted with a stab of relief that the bars were set in a framework that could be swung inward.
The guards, not seeing their quarry, withdrew to the doorway and huddled there, whispering uneasily. Then, making the sign against demonic possession, they vanished into the smoke.
With a gasp, Jezzil released the Casting and reached for the pin holding the barred window shut. When he had it open, he shoved a chest, already sparking and smoldering, into place beneath it and climbed up.
Below him—far, far below him—lapped the waters of the moat. The Chonao remembered those half-seen shapes and nearly gagged with fear, but he knew this was his only way out. He could not possibly hold a Casting long enough enough to go back through that charnel house that held the bodies of his comrades—especially knowing in his soul that he belonged there with them—and down those steep stairs, and fight his way out through all those Taenarith. Where had they all come from? One of the raiding parties must have returned, he thought bitterly. Barus had said there was nothing to worry about. He’d been wrong—and had paid for his mistake with his life.
The fabric of Jezzil’s tunic was beginning to smolder. He looked down again at the gray water. It was either the moat or go back into the next room, fall on his sword, and join his comrades.
Jezzil shook his head, hating himself, knowing himself for a twice-damned coward. But by all the weapons in Arenar’s Arsenal, he wanted to live.
Hearing a shout behind him, he sprang from the win-dowsill, launching himself into empty air.
He was falling … falling …
It seemed to Jezzil that all of time and yet no time had passed before he struck foul, chilly water. The shock of his landing drove the breath from his lungs. He thrashed desperately, swimming upward with all his strength, but his heavy sword and armor weighed him down.
He gagged, fighting the water more fiercely than any enemy of flesh and blood, and knew, with a sudden, terrible clarity, that he was going to drown.
Frantically, his fingers found clasps, buckles, and the heavy armor slipped from his shoulders. His lungs were bursting as he discarded the metal-studded kilt. Fortunately, his stolen footgear was loose enough so he could kick it off.
With those burdens gone, Jezzil was able to kick upward, until his face broke water and he grabbed a quick, blessed breath before he sank once more.
His sword—his fingers found his sword belt, just as his thrashing brought him up again. Another breath, longer, deeper, then the flame-edged darkness of the moat enclosed him again.
He unbuckled the heavy sword belt, but hesitated. Abandon his sword to the dark water? He’d as soon leave an arm or a leg at the bottom.
Jezzil drew his weapon, then let the heavy, metal-studded sword belt and the attached sheath go. Kicking hard, he swam back up to the surface, and this time he managed to stay there, though the sword dragged at his arm.
Grasping the hilt, the Chonao warrior began a clumsy one-armed stroke-and-kick, his eyes fixed on the low stone wall that marked the other side of the moat.
He was within a body span of touching it when an oily ripple in the flame-marked water announced the arrival of one of the moat’s rightful inhabitants.
In the murky darkness of the water it was naught but a black-scaled shadow. The eyes gleamed fiercely from behind horn-studded ridges, golden and slit-pupiled. Jezzil estimated each of those eyes to be as large as his closed fist.
The creature came straight for him, its mouth opening wide, wider …
Jezzil fumbled, trying to concentrate, but this time his effort at Casting flickered like a guttering candle. He tried harder, fighting panic, and felt the Casting work—but he knew he could not hold it.
The approaching behemoth swung its massive head back and forth, seeking its prey. As that huge, barely seen head moved toward him, Jezzil thrust hard with his sword, and the blade s
lid deep into the creature’s eye.
The water exploded in a froth of blood and bubbles. Jezzil almost lost his sword as the creature thrashed violently. He pulled his arm back, felt his sword slide free.
He clawed his way up, up, toward air and sanity, his fingers still gripping the hilt. His arm burned with the effort of keeping his fingers tight. He was barely conscious when his head finally broke water.
He was sobbing for breath as he paddled clumsily along, and the water that washed his face tasted now of blood. Finally his questing hand encountered the edge of the moat.
He grabbed it, hung there, trying to breathe. Even under the threat of another moat inhabitant finding him, it took Jezzil nearly five minutes to regain enough strength to hoist himself and his sword up and over the low stone wall.
He lay on the ground for a while, hearing the roar of the fire, a few scattered shouts and screams, then rolled over and got to his feet. Falar … He allowed himself to think only of his horse. She was waiting for him. He longed for the silken feel of her coat, for her warm, living breath. Falar.
Jezzil glanced back only once as he staggered away from the fortress. The entire place was aflame, though most of the stone walls were still standing.
When the Chonao reached the horses, he went from animal to animal, removing their saddles and bridles and speaking the Word of Release that would free them to behave as horses once more, and not as Chonao war-mounts.
As he spoke the Word, over and over again, each horse snorted, then ambled away toward the field in search of grass.
Jezzil’s hands were numb as he tightened Falar’s girth. He was further disgraced to find that he hadn’t the strength to mount Chonao-style, by swinging up onto Falar in one fluid motion. He was forced to use the stirrup, like a farmer or a tradesman.
As he rode out of the clearing, he heard the distant rumble of thunder, like an echo of the turmoil in his spirit. He had no idea where he was going or what he would do when he got there. He was Chonao, and he had left his brothers-in-arms. He was Chonao, and he had run from a battle. He was Chonao, and his honor was gone. He was Chonao, and his life was over.
Jezzil touched Falar’s neck with the reins, and she headed south. The last of his strength flowed from him like water, like lifeblood, and he slumped over his horse’s neck and began to weep.
Thia
Night gathered around the two stepped pyramids like the folds of demon wings, enclosing them in darkness and dank winter chill. High above the ground, deep within that ancient pile of stone, cold air gusted through a narrow window slit, abruptly extinguishing the flame of a single, guttering candle. Thia, Novice Priestess of Boq’urak, blinked and shivered in the sudden gloom. Dark already? How could it be so late? I must hurry and finish …
She fumbled as she relit the candle; her fingers were cramped with cold. Thia spared a moment to rub and flex them as she quickly read back over the page she had been copying and illuminating.
The sacred text told of the travels of Blessed Incarnate Balaj, recounting his sojurn among the infidels of the southern regions and of his first days in the northern reaches of Galrai, before Amaran had taken it over and re-named it Amavav. Balaj, dead for nearly a hundred-year, had been an educated man, as well as a lively and astute observer. His tales of his travels were fascinating to read— and, unlike most of the novice scriptorians, Thia could read.
A swift glance at the water clock on the wall made her gasp sharply. Only a quarter-span till dinner? I’ll have to run or I’ll be late—and I daren’t risk another penance!
Novice priestesses who garnered too many penances did not remain long at the twin ziggurats in the capital city of Verang … there was no public disgrace, but they tended to quietly vanish overnight, without farewells. Thia supposed the High Ones did it that way so as not to dampen the spirits of those who remained by exposing them to the sight of the ones who had failed to please Boq’urak … but she found it unsettling all the same. And she had no desire to be sent home.
The novice could barely remember her home; she had been given to Boq’urak on her sixth birthday, nearly thir-teen years ago. Her parents had wanted a son, and they’d been willing to give their daughter to the god in the hope Boq’urak would heed their prayers.
Thia could no longer picture their faces or recall her family name, but she still occasionally heard their voices in dreams. “Stay here with this man for a little while, Thia, while we shop,” Mother had said, her head bent so she seemed to study her dusty peasant shoes.
“No, Mama!” the child Thia had wailed. “I don’t want to stay here!”
“It’s only for a while, child,” her mother had said, still not looking up.
“We’ll be back for you, daughter,” her father had added.
But they’d been lying, of course. Thia had known it instantly. Ever since she could remember, she’d been able to tell when anyone was lying. It was nothing she did consciously; she simply knew, the way she knew she had two hands and eyes so dark the pupil could scarcely be discerned from the surrounding iris. It had been a surprise to discover that most people could not immediately discern truth from falsehood.
So Thia had known instantly that they were not coming back, not ever. She would never forget the way she’d felt as she stood on the temple steps, her hand clamped in the huge
hand of the elderly High Priest, watching as they walked away, melting into the throng of petitioners and worshipers until they were lost to view.
Sometimes, just before she fell asleep, Thia wondered whether Boq’urak had ever granted their wish for a boy. She was as devout as most novices, but she had never been able to force herself to pray for that.
The candle flame wavered in the night breeze, and she adjusted the wind guard, then began putting her work away.
The next New Moon would mark her tenth year in the scriptorium, and she knew the routine well.
She picked up the tiny vials of cobalt blue, scarlet, and leaf-green ink and placed them on a tray. The big inkwell held the deep purple writing ink, a hue so dark that it would dry nearly black. Thia twisted the stopper into its mouth with a quick jerk of her slender wrist. Carrying the tray, she scurried over to the cabinet and inserted each vial into its proper slot.
Now for her horn-pens and brushes … her steps came faster as she cleaned and stowed her materials away. At last only the texts themselves and the tiny, precious vial of liquid gold remained. Thia scurried to put the gleaming vial in its correct place, then locked the small cabinet with the key she carried on her scarlet cord that girdled her gray, hooded robe. Her bare feet were soundless against the massive yellow sandstone blocks that formed the floor and walls of the scriptorium.
As she examined the day’s work, automatically checking each page to make sure the inks were dry, and smoothing out any wrinkles, she forced herself to be careful. If she damaged a Sacred Text, that would be an even worse penance than being late for dinner.
Thia had actually been in the scriptorium on the day that Ryleese had overturned her desk and spilled all her inks onto the text she’d been copying. It had been awful, hearing the other girl’s shrieks and wails for mercy as the scriptorians dragged her away. They said she’d been possessed by Outer Demons who had caused her clumsiness to punish her for sinning, and that under questioning she’d blasphemed.
They said that Ryleese was fortunate that Boq’urak, in His mercy, had granted her the blessing of cleansing.
All Thia knew for sure was that two days later Ryleese had been declared Chosen and given to Boq’urak. Thia swallowed uneasily. Don’t think about it. Concentrate …
As she rolled up the day’s work, she felt pride in the neat rows of precise letters, the beautifully illuminated capitals that marked the beginning of each page. Thank you, Master Varn, she thought, remembering the first day he’d noticed her. She’d been sitting on her stool at this very same desk, eagerly poring over a scroll, wondering about the meaning of the words and letters on the vellum. Unlike
many of the other fledgling scriptorians, Thia understood the theory of written language, if not the symbols themselves. Each time she worked here, she listened intently to all the conversations going on around her, and she’d learned quite a bit that way. Until that day … Her lips curved in a smile as she remembered …
She had been on this very stool, at this very same desk.
She was all alone, and so dared to trace the letters with her finger, wondering what they meant. “What are you?” she’d whispered softly, under her breath. “What do you say?”
As if in answer to her plea, a deep voice said, almost in her ear, “That is the letter om-ee.”
Startled, she’d swung around in her seat to find Master Varn, vivid in his scarlet robe, standing beside her. The priest was a handsome man, with the typical coloring that betokened Northern blood—like Thia, he was tall and slenderly formed, with dark, dark eyes. Like all the priests and priestesses, his skull was shaven, but he was standing so close that the girl could see a faint pale fuzz on his pate, just like the fuzz that she had to remove from her own head. His hair must be the same color as her own, the color of ashes just before they blew away.
“And that one there is the letter tyy,” he said quietly. He put out his hand, and his fingers closed around Thia’s, warm and strong. “Would you like to know all of them?”
Thia had stared at him worshipfully. “Oh, yes, Master!
What word is that?”
“That word is ‘ocean,’ ” he said.
“ ‘Ocean,’ ” she repeated, under her breath. “What is an ocean, Master?”
“A body of water. Like a sea, but larger. They lie on the other side of Boq’urain.”
“The other side, Master?”
“The world is shaped like a ball, child.”
The child priestess had stared up at the priest who would become her Mentor, her dark eyes wide with amazement.
Storms of Destiny Page 3
