Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  Those frontiersmen are deadly shots, they say. And they’re not the only ones who’ll fight out there.”

  “He wouldn’t recruit savages?”

  “He’s a bold’un. Who’s to know what he’d do? But they say he—”

  Just then a pot slipped from Eregard’s greasy grasp and fell with a loud clanging onto the stone floor. The Prince cursed himself as he muttered apologies and picked it up.

  Seeing him mopping up the greasy water, the cook curtly ordered him to scrub the entire kitchen floor.

  As Eregard scrubbed, the brush moving in ever-widening circles on the rough stone floor, his mind was busy. I must get home. Father has to take control back from Salesin. He needs to know how close to revolution Kata is. I must escape!

  But Talis was careful. Not once in the week before his up-coming sale did Eregard get an opportunity. She even hobbled him at night. “I’m sorry,” she always said. “Wake me if you need to use the privy.”

  Night after night Eregard lay there, curled on his side, listening to the breathing of the two women who shared the bed. He found himself praying to the Goddess for the first time in a long time, praying that Talis would sell him to somebody here in Q’Kal. If he remained here in Q’Kal, he had a chance of someday getting free and being rescued by the Royal Governor. If she sold him as a laborer, or farm-hand, his chances of ever seeing home again—much less of warning his father about the revolution brewing here in Kata—were so slim as to be negligible.

  The days crept by, as Talis frequented taverns, gathering information from drunken royal troops by day, then, late at night, passing on all she had learned to Rufen Castio or his lieutenants.

  Each morning, Eregard awoke realizing he was one day closer to the next Market Day. Another day closer to standing there on the auction block and being sold like a beast.

  If I ever get home, he vowed each night, I’ll do something about this. It’s just not right. People aren’t things to be sold.

  Jezzil was learning to walk again, hobbling across the infirmary room floor on crutches, under Thia’s watchful eye. He was intent on moving smoothly, testing his splinted leg to see how much weight it would bear.

  “That’s good,” she encouraged, moving beside him, but not actually touching him. “Use your hands and forearms when you walk. Try not to hunch over.”

  As he moved, using the concentration techniques he’d learned as a Chonao warrior, adjusting his balance to the crutches, the door to the infirmary opened and Khith entered. Jezzil glanced up at the little Hthras physician, and the sudden movement caused his foot to slip on the waxed wooden floor. He managed to catch himself with a grunt of effort, but the stab of pain from his leg made the whole world go gray and dim.

  When he returned to himself, he was seated on the bench beside the fireplace, steadied by Thia on one side and Khith on the other. The Hthras reached for his hand, took his pulse, and made a reproving sound. “You must be easy on yourself, young Jezzil. You cannot regain yourself in just one day.”

  Jezzil nodded, taking a deep breath. “At least I made it across the room,” he pointed out. “I have to be able to get around while this heals. I’ve got to be able to walk and climb stairs.”

  Khith looked at him, the Hthras’s huge, round eyes filled with intelligence and understanding. “Yes, I understand, but if you fall and break that leg again, you will limp for the rest of your life, despite anything I might do to treat you.”

  The Hthras glanced over at Thia and nodded at the door.

  “Why don’t you get something to eat, my dear? I need to speak with Jezzil in private.”

  Thia looked curious, but she went without demur.

  Jezzil regarded the Hthras with his own measure of curiosity. “Speak to me? About what?”

  He had little experience reading Hthras features, but even Jezzil could tell that the physician was concerned … nay, worried. “My young patient,” the healer began, “please listen to me. And reply with the truth. How long have you been able to vanish?”

  Jezzil stiffened. How can the doctor know about that? he wondered.

  “Or, perhaps I should say, how long have you been able to fling the illusion that you have vanished into the minds of observers? Please, be truthful. Your answer is important.”

  The Chonao was silent, wondering what to say. Obviously, he must have done a Casting while he was unconscious. He remembered the fevered dreams he’d experienced, dreams of fighting Boq’urak over and over.

  Unlike a human, Khith knew how to be silent, and wait.

  Jezzil looked over at the little physician, and finally decided to be truthful but cautious. “My people call it Casting,” he said. “Usually Casters show the ability when they are young, still schoolboys. With me it came late, I don’t know why.”

  “Only males have the ability?”

  Jezzil shook his head. “I don’t know. I never heard of any women having power. But things with women are different for my people.” He smiled thinly. “Women such as Talis and Thia do not exist in Ktavao. The women I have known were quiet, hiding their faces from strangers, living secluded lives, existing only to care for their families. We have no women warriors, or female scholars, for that matter.”

  “When did you do your first Casting, as you call it?”

  “Last winter. Nearly six months ago, now.” Jezzil went on to give a bit of his story to the healer—omitting mention of how he had abandoned his comrades to the fire. That, he’d never spoken of to anyone. He dreamed of it, sometimes …

  and in his dreams, Barus was always there, trapped in the smoke, watching with horror as Jezzil abandoned him to the flames.

  “I see.” The physician’s huge eyes were fixed, unblinking, on his face. “Young Jezzil, there are things I sense about you that I must tell you. First of all, you have power within you, and this power will try to claim you. You must be taught to control it, to use it. The lessoning will be hard. It requires great powers of concentration and great courage. You are a warrior, but what I speak of is beyond the courage one learns to have in battle.”

  Courage! Jezzil had a strong flash of memory, seeing a harmless young woman impaled on his sword, and then he remembered leaping from the window to escape the inferno behind him. He felt himself flush with anger and shame. I have no courage. I am a warrior in name only.

  He shook his head, refusing to meet Khith’s gaze. “I am no adept, Doctor! I am no scholar! I can read and write, true enough, but the idea of spending time with dusty scrolls and rotting tomes makes me shudder. I am only a soldier, skilled a little in the ways of fighting. The road you speak of is not my road to walk.” His fingers tightened on the wood of the crutch he still held. “Not my road, Doctor. I can’t.” His voice sounded thick in his own ears, but he had to make the doctor understand. “I can’t. ”

  Khith made a low sound, almost like a moan of distress.

  Jezzil looked up. For the first time, he could recognize emotion as it flickered across Khith’s face. The Hthras shook its head grimly. “You do not understand,” it said. “You must—”

  “No,” Jezzil broke in, “You do not understand, Doctor.

  You say I must have courage?” He shook his head and fought back a bitter laugh. “Courage is not something I am blessed with.”

  “You fought Boq’urak,” Khith countered. “I know a little something of the Ancient One. It is mentioned in some of the scrolls in the ruined city. Even if it was not fully Incarnate, it—He—is a fearful creature. It took courage to engage Him.”

  Jezzil shook his head. “It’s not courage when you don’t have time to think. You say that doing magic requires thought, discipline … and courage. I’m not good at any of those things. Thank you, Doctor, but I’m not someone who could learn magic.” He forced a smile that was meant to reassure. “Just because I can Cast once in a while doesn’t mean I’m some kind of sorcerer.”

  Khith’s huge, unblinking eyes held only concern and sadness. “Young Jezzil, it is not so simp
le as you try to make it.

  If you do not learn to harness it, control it, as you would control your steed in battle, the power within you will conquer you and kill you, as surely as a blade that cleaves your head from your body.”

  “Kill me?” Jezzil was startled. “This magic, this power, could do that?

  Khith reached over to lay its long, lightly furred fingers over Jezzil’s arm. “I swear to you, I am speaking the truth.

  Listen to me, and I shall explain. This ability is indeed a power. Your potential is great. My people call what you have, what I have, avundi. It means the ability of the mind, with proper focusing and conditions, to influence internal and external events. I can sense it within others, as surely as I can smell the ocean when the wind is right. I suspect that you can do the same.”

  Jezzil stared at the physician. “You say I have this avundi.

  Does everyone have it?”

  “There is no way to know unless it manifests. Many people have a trace of it. They can work minor cures, charm warts, or cast love spells. Simple magics that require only a little lessoning. Unlike you, these people are in little danger from the avundi they possess.”

  Khith stood up and began to pace the infirmary, moving with a restless, inhuman grace. Jezzil saw the back of its robe move, side to side, and realized, for the first time, that the Hthras had a tail. Like a cat that lashes its tail when it is upset.

  “Jezzil, listen to me!” Khith’s tone was sharp. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you are in grave danger. You have great potential to learn to be a powerful sorcerer. But if you do not learn to leash and control your avundi, the avundi within you is quite likely to drive you mad.”

  The Hthras turned to face the human, and this time the doctor’s agitation was plain. “Did you understand what I said?”

  Jezzil nodded, then shrugged. “Doctor, I will have to take that risk. I am no sorcerer. I scarcely have the right to call myself a warrior.”

  “You are willing to risk madness?”

  The Chonao shrugged. “You say there is a chance. Once warned, perhaps the madness can be fought, or prevented.”

  “Jezzil, as a physician, I have been permitted into asylums for the deranged. I could sense the avundi there, in great quantities. It had driven those poor creatures mad. We are not speaking of those who are gently forgetful, or perhaps a bit, what is the word …” Khith made a circling gesture with its fingers beside its temple. “I am speaking of people so tormented by their inner demons that they must be bound lest they tear out their own eyes with their own fingers.”

  Khith’s words made Jezzil shudder. “But I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Doctor, you do not understand.”

  “Make me understand,” Khith said, walking over to put a slender hand on Jezzil’s shoulder. The Hthras’s huge eyes were liquid with sympathy. Jezzil swallowed. “Tell me, young Jezzil.”

  The human shook his head again. “I can’t,” he muttered.

  “Jezzil, the fact that you were able to do these illusions, these ‘Castings,’ as you call them, without any lessoning at all tells me your inherent avundi is great. And so is the danger for you and those around you, unless you learn to control it.”

  Jezzil considered what the Hthras had said. He knew that the physician was correct in saying that he could sense magic. It was as distinct as an odor that, once smelled, would always be remembered.

  Khith watched him in silence. “Harness it, control it,”

  Jezzil said finally. “You mean, learn to become a sorcerer? A witch?”

  “Your people tend to regard avundi as something unnatural, to be feared,” Khith said. “My people use it as naturally as we use tools to cultivate, or thread to weave. I could teach you,” the physician said. “Last night I did a foreseeing. I saw us together in the darkness, surrounded by water. The ground beneath us was unsteady. We were using avundi. Together.”

  Jezzil regarded the little creature for a long moment. What would it be like, he wondered, to be able to do magic at will?

  Can a warrior also be a witch? A sorcerer?

  Then the familiar image from his dream was in his mind.

  Barus was staring at him pleadingly as the flames crept closer. Khith says this requires courage. You have no courage. You are a coward, and you know it. You will never be anything but a coward.

  “Let me think about it,” he said finally. “I will give you my answer tomorrow.”

  There was a new priest at court, and all of the lords and ladies were whispering about him. Ulandra heard about him from one of her ladies-in-waiting, Marquise Jonala q’Stevrii. “And he’s handsome, Your Highness,” she burbled as she arranged Ulandra’s hair for the Spring Ball. “Too bad this Varlon is a priest.” She giggled, then, as Ulandra caught her eye in the mirror, hastily turned the sound into a cough.

  “I mean, too bad good looks have to be wasted on a priest.

  He’s tall, with the darkest eyes … black eyes that seem to see right through into your spirit, Your Highness.”

  Ulandra, who worshiped the Goddess—as did most Pelanese—was only interested because the news took her mind off the coming ball. She hated public appearances.

  She’d been wed for months now, and the whispering and barely veiled glances at her waistline only served to remind her that her life was in shambles.

  A barren princess, she thought bleakly. Is there anything worse? She thought of her husband’s mother, whose sweet, ailing face grew paler and thinner seemingly each day. And yet, Elnorin had produced three sons. Just one thing … a barren queen, she realized.

  “All done, Your Highness!” Jonala said.

  Ulandra studied herself in the mirror. Her elaborate hair-style and the sapphire and diamond tiara made her appear older. Her skin felt tight and dry from the cosmetics carefully painted to enhance her eyes, cheeks, and lips. Still, Jonala had done her job well. “Thank you, Marquise,” she said, attempting to inject a warmth she didn’t feel into her voice.

  “You have done well.”

  “Now you must dress, Your Highness. I will call the others,” Jonala said, and slipped out.

  Ulandra stood up, stretched, then took a last deep breath.

  When her ladies returned, they would adjust her corset, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe easily until it was loosened, hours from now.

  At least she knew that Salesin wouldn’t be spending the night with her. She had heard that he had a new mistress, a red-haired countess who was married to one of King Agivir’s top generals. With the threat of invasion from the east, as the Redai’s forces took island after island, General Goljone was probably grateful that his wife was too occupied with the Crown Prince to demand his attention.

  I am becoming such a cynic, Ulandra thought bleakly. If only I could escape this court … this twisted parody of life.

  If only I could just run away.

  She heard the rustle of fabric and the sounds of footsteps, then the Marquise, the seamstress, and two other waiting women came through the open door, carrying the voluminous folds of the ball gown.

  Ulandra lay down upon the bed so they could fasten the corset hooks down the front. Lying down, it wasn’t too re-strictive, but when her women pulled her back up and set her on her feet, she had to suppress a whimper of misery. The corset narrowed her waist to nothing, and pushed her small breasts up so high that she actually could wear a low-cut gown without being laughed at, but she felt as imprisoned as any cutpurse in the royal dungeons.

  Briskly, as though she were a life-sized doll, her ladies-in-waiting clothed her. Stockings, garters, shoes … suddenly she was several inches taller. Underskirt, then two petticoats, one stiffly starched, one with a hoop in the bottom to make her skirt fall correctly.

  And then the dress. Maidens were supposed to wear delicate pastels, or white. This was her first ball gown since she’d been married, and it was dramatic in a way none of her other dresses had ever been. It was of a royal blue satin, trimmed with sapphire
lace at the bodice, and small lace panniers and a lace rosette in back. The skimpy lace sleeves revealed the tops of her shoulders and most of her arms.

  The ladies clucked over the fit of the sleeves and bodice as they made hasty alterations. Ulandra realized she’d probably lost weight since the dress had first been fitted.

  When they finally allowed her to examine herself in the looking glass, Ulandra felt faintly scandalized at the amount of white flesh she was baring. She could see the rounded tops of her breasts, and had to fight the urge to cross her arms over her bosom.

  “Your Highness, you are beautiful!” the marquise assured her.

  “It’s awfully low,” Ulandra muttered, tugging at the bodice. Her ladies gently but firmly moved her hands.

  “ ’Tis the fashion, Your Highness,” Jonala reassured her.

  “Oh, they’ll all want to dance with you!”

  Just as long as Salesin leaves me alone, I don’t care.

  “Thank you, ladies. You have done your work well.”

  Ulandra forced warmth into her voice. “Now, we go.” Summoning a smile she’d practiced, so it didn’t look like a grim rictus, Ulandra left her room, walking past bowing guards, feeling a bit like a ship under full sail heading into shoal water.

  The ladies’ predictions proved accurate—even King Agivir took a brief turn around the dance floor with her. Despite her feet and lack of breath, Ulandra actually began to enjoy herself. Salesin had not made an appearance, so she could relax and feel safe.

  The son of the Duke of Vestala claimed her for a vigorous row dance, and Ulandra was too busy to do anything except count her steps and try not bump into anyone else. When the dance ended, she was breathless—but actually smiling. She curtsied to the young man. “Thank you, m’lord.”

  He bowed low, and the motion caused the gold braid on his dress uniform to sparkle. Ulandra had noticed that dress uniforms had replaced evening garb for many of the noblemen. “You do me too much honor, Your Highness. Every man in the room envies me, dancing with the greatest beauty in the kingdom.”