Jezzil thought for a moment. “It could be absorbed through the skin, I suppose, unless immediately washed off, and that substance does cause victims to go mad before they die.”
Talis nodded. “I think,” she said quietly, “that I may have succeeded after all. Pity it didn’t kill him before he could order that charge.”
Jezzil shrugged. “That charge was the kind of thing that can have a huge effect on an army’s spirit to fight. Without it, who knows how things might have gone that day?”
Seeing Thia leaning over to look down off the battlement, Jezzil went over to her and took her hand. “Be careful,” he warned. “You don’t want to get vertigo.”
Thia smiled. “I’ve always had a head for heights,” she said. “I don’t know why. When I was a novice, I was always expected to climb up the tallest ladders in the sacristy to dust the top shelves where the most ancient icons were kept.”
The two smiled at each other, but then, conscious that they were not alone, Jezzil changed the subject. “Have you seen the Princess?”
“You mean the Queen,” she reminded him. “I saw her this morning, after the burial. She told me that the Captain of the Watch reported to her that Master Varn—also known as His Reverence Varlon—seems to have vanished without a trace.
He’s nowhere to be found in Minoma.”
“He’s had more than four days to run,” Khith, who had been listening, pointed out. “This island is not that large. If he stole a horse and rode hard, he could be many leagues away by now.”
He awoke late in the day, having slept the sleep of exhaustion after his long ride. For three days he’d ridden, all day and most of the night, not at a fast pace, for that might have attracted attention, but steadily.
He’d sold his stolen horse for enough coins to keep him here at this cheap inn for days. While in Napice, he planned to sell the small objects he’d stolen from the palace for
enough money to take ship for K’Qal, and from here he would take the caravan back to Amaran. He was relieved that it was over. His service to the god was done.
Varn groaned aloud as he sat up on his lumpy cot. Getting a private room in this run-down inn had not bought him a decent straw tick on the bed, or a pillow with more than a few feathers left in it. And after four days in the saddle, his entire body was as sore as if he’d been roundly thrashed.
Fumbling under the cot, he pulled out the chamber pot and used it, then covered it and slid it back under.
He regarded his travel-stained breeches, shirt, and overjerkin distastefully, but had nothing else to put on. He’d buried his incriminating red robe the second day he’d traveled south. Varn had no idea whether the citizens of Napice, the southernmost port city on Pela, knew anything about the priests of Boq’urak, but why take chances?
He’d always been fastidious about his personal habits and dress, though, and it was almost physical pain to wear dirty clothes. At the moment he could do nothing about them, but at least he could do something about his own body.
Rising, Varn wrapped himself in his cloak and went to the door. A few shouts brought the innkeeper, and a few coins brought a promise of a tub and hot water.
Afterward, it felt good to be clean again.
His chin and cheeks itched, and he wished he could shave, but a beard was one of the quickest ways a man could change his appearance. Varn felt the stubble that was growing on his head. He would stay here in Napice until he had enough hair and beard so no one would think “holy man”
when they looked at him. Then he would find a ship.
The twin ziggurats awaited him. He would go home and devote himself to his god and his fellow priests. He’d had enough of the outside world to last him a lifetime. Varn found himself longing for the peace, order, and silence of the monastic life.
Slowly, distastefully, he dried himself on his dirty cloak, then slipped into his clothes. He would go to the marketplace and buy new ones as soon as he had broken his fast.
In the darkest corner of the room there hung an old mirror, warped and stained with dirt and age. When he was dressed, he walked over to it to adjust his traveler’s hood so it would hide his shaven pate.
The moment he regarded himself, Master Varn knew that he was not alone. His features began to Change, to flow, in the way he’d experienced before.
His voice, when he spoke, was shrill with fear and awe.
“Lord?” he said. “Why do you visit your servant now?”
He heard the answer, not sure whether he was hearing it from his own throat or within his mind. His lips moved, but did sound emerge? He couldn’t be sure.
Faithful servant, the words came. You have done well, but it is not finished.
“It is finished,” Varn dared to say. “Pela triumphed, as you wished. The Queen will bear no children. Life-force flowed to you in great numbers. All went as you decreed unto me.”
It is not finished. The voice was inexorable. Varn could see that his own eyes were gone, that Boq’urak’s huge orbs filled his face. His hands … He regarded the leathery talons with their huge claws, and for just a second, the part of him that was still Master Varn had a terrible urge to use those claws to rip out those dreadful eyes.
“Lord,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper, “forgive me, but your servant is weary. I can do no more.”
There are those who are aware of Me. They have escaped Me. They have flouted My wishes. They do not worship Me as they ought. They challenge Me, simply by living. They must die. Attend to it.
“Who?” Varn whispered, though he already knew.
You know them. The five must die. Eregard, Jezzil, Khith, Talis …
The voice paused. Varn tried to choke back a whimper.
“No.”
Yes. Thia. She is Mine. Her death belongs to Me. You must be My arm and My sword, My servant. Kill them all.
“I can kill Jezzil, Talis, Khith, and Eregard,” Varn said.
“But a good servant needs a reward, Lord. Thia is mine. She will be mine.”
She can never be yours, the god said, and as His voice filled Varn’s mind, a vision filled his eyes.
Thia. He recognized her, wearing a blood-spattered apron, her hair tied up in a scarf. She was standing with her back to some kind of tent, and she was not alone. Varn recognized the other figure in the vision. It was that wretched soldier lad who fancied himself a magic-worker. The priest watched as they drew together, then embraced, kissing. At first they were clumsy as puppies, but within moments they had learned, and their kisses grew long, deep, and passionate—kisses like the ones Varn had yearned to give her for so long now.
As the vision filled his mind, his body reacted to it, arousing him painfully. Anger flooded him. If they’d been before him at that moment, his hatred would have caused him to strike them both dead—and, so closely were they entwined, one sword thrust would have served.
Varn blinked, and suddenly the vision was gone.
The voice spoke again. Thia must die.
“No,” he said, choking with fear at his own temerity.
“Without the others, she is nothing. A girl-child. When she is mine, she cannot possibly be a threat to you. She will be mine. She is all I ask.”
No. Thia must die.
Varn let out a moan of anguish. “Please, Lord. Please.” He stared into the mirror again, and was startled to see only his own features. With shaking fingers, he ran his hands over his face. It was his own flesh, warm, firm, and living. Human.
Master Varn swayed as he stared into the mirror, and he had to clutch the back of the room’s rickety chair for support.
Had it really happened? Had Boq’urak really been here?
Or was he still in his bed, dreaming?
Master Varn raised his own hand and slapped himself smartly in the face. He staggered, his cheek burning, then slid to the floor.
“It was real,” he mumbled. “Real.”
Burying his head in his hands, he began to weep.
Hearing a soft hail
from behind them, the four friends turned away from the battlements and the fine view of the harbor of Minoma to see Eregard and Queen Ulandra approaching on the walkway.
“Eregard!” Thia stepped forward to hug the young Prince.
“How are you? I’ve scarcely seen you since the day of the battle.”
“I’m well,” he said, returning her quick embrace. He turned to Jezzil and Talis. “Ah, the heroes of Pela. Ironic that neither of you is Pelanese, isn’t it?”
Jezzil laughed. “I suppose it is,” he said. “How goes the aftermath of the battle?”
“They’re still interrogating some of the high-ranked officers,” Eregard said. He cocked an eyebrow at Talis. “Do you know what they call you, Trooper Talis?”
“No,” she said apprehensively. “What?”
“The Katan bitch that killed Kerezau,” he said. “It has a certain assonance, doesn’t it? Like the beginning of a song.
Perhaps I should write it …”
“Goddess, no,” Talis said fervently. “All I want is to go back to Kata and tell Rufen Castio that I accomplished my mission. And help you work to redress some of the wrongs done to my country by the Viceroy—I mean, the King.”
Eregard’s mouth twisted. “You know I will do what I can,”
he said. “But Salesin is not one to listen to the counsel of others. Except …” He paused. “He did listen to several of his military leaders today, including Adranan and I. You are to be awarded a sign of the Crown’s gratitude for your actions, Talis.”
She looked, if possible, even warier than before. “I am?
What about Jezzil?”
“After publicly proving my brother wrong on two occasions,” Eregard said dryly, “Jezzil is lucky that he won’t be hanged for treason, I suspect. Prophets who turn out to be correct are usually the most unpopular.”
Jezzil chuckled. “It’s a good thing I can’t really foretell the future.”
“So nobody mentioned an award for Jezzil,” Eregard continued. “But there is one for you.”
“What is it?”
“Banner is yours,” Eregard said. “The King has decreed it.
A small reward for your services.”
Talis looked amazed, then delighted. “He’s mine? That’s wonderful! He’s a beauty! I’m surprised Salesin doesn’t want him for himself.”
Eregard’s mouth was twitching, and even Ulandra began to smile. “I think the fact that Salesin tried to ride him this morning and got royally thrown might have something to do with it,” Eregard said.
Talis’s mouth fell open and she began to giggle. “Oh, dear!”
Jezzil was laughing out loud. “Smart horse!”
The comrades shared a moment of amusement, then Eregard reached over and took Ulandra’s hand. “Master Khith, Ulandra needs your help,” he said.
Khith extended its small, narrow hand and laid it on Eregard’s sleeve, then reached over to grasp the Queen’s hand.
“Anything that is in my power, I shall do,” it said gravely.
“You know that.”
“Healer Khith …” Ulandra spoke in a low, hesitant voice.
“I have been told that you can help to heal sick minds, as well as sick bodies. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” Khith replied.
“I want you to look into my mind,” the Queen said. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but there was a firmness to it that held nothing of the childlike creature she’d been before her marriage. “Something is wrong with me. There’s something inside me. Thia told me about Boq’urak. I think that whatever is inside me is linked to it …” She took a deep breath. “Or perhaps I’ve been possessed by Boq’urak itself.
Whatever it is, I must know what it is, and what it plans.”
Khith studied her, then nodded, and glanced around the battlements.
“We are alone,” Eregard reassured it. “And will remain undisturbed. I left guards stationed at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the battlements.”
“Very well,” Khith said. “Be seated.” It indicated a stone bench.
Ulandra seated herself, her hands in her lap, her blue eyes fixed on the Hthras’s face.
“Relax …” Khith said. “Let your mind relax. Your mind and body are at peace. My voice will help you to relax and find peace.”
As it continued to speak of relaxation, peace, and comfort, Khith’s voice took on the cadence of a soothing monotone.
Jezzil watched, studying the senior adept’s movements.
Was this magic? Not quite … it was a healer’s technique, but it did not have the feeling of magic associated with it.
A few minutes later Ulandra sat on the bench, hands limp in her lap, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Khith turned to Jezzil. “She entered the trance state easily. I suspect that this is not the first time.”
“Master Varn?”
“From what Thia has told me, yes.”
“Now what?” he asked.
“While she is in a trance, I may be able to make contact with what she fears without arousing it or making it aware of us. But I will have to stop if I sense that it is becoming aware.”
Jezzil nodded.
“Ulandra …” Khith’s voice was soothing. “What lies inside you that you fear? There is a darkness there, you say.
Without touching the darkness, look at it, and tell me what you see.”
She shivered. “I’m … ’fraid …”
“You are safe. I will not allow you to be harmed. Just look. Tell me what you see.”
She took two more deep breaths, then said, slowly, “He is powerful, so strong. Ugly, so ugly …”
Thia gave Jezzil a quick, alarmed glance.
“Who is he, Ulandra? Where is he from?”
“He is many names. In the north He is Boq … Boq’urak.
He lives somewhere else. Not here. Not there. Somewhere else. Through a door …”
“A door? What kind of door?”
“Door, portal …” She was groping for words to describe a concept she didn’t fully understand. “Other places, not this world. Portals that go back and forth. He comes back and forth, when He has a vessel to do His bidding.”
Jezzil heard Khith’s indrawn breath. Ulandra’s words meant little to him, but they obviously held meaning for the Hthras.
“And you are one such vessel?”
“He’s trying …” It was half moan, half sob. “Oh, He’s ugly, I don’t want Him.”
“Why does He come here, to this world?”
“To play,” she said, certainty returning to her voice. “He plays here.”
Khith looked at the other four, seeing their expressions.
“Plays?”
“Amusing fun to bring it down, build it up, bring it down.
A game.”
Thia drew in a short, sharp breath, and Jezzil put an arm around her. She leaned against him.
Ulandra was continuing without prompting. “Fun to make them fall, and rise. Great sport to bring down the Redai …
love the look of battle, the gush of blood … oh, the blood, spill the blood … blood is power, blood is strength …” She was moaning now, obviously in distress. “Bring the little creatures down, great sport … blood and death and war …”
She moaned again, a sound of such pain and distress that Thia cried out softly, “Don’t!”
“Queen Ulandra,” Khith said sharply. “When I speak the word ‘awake,’ I want you to awaken to this sunlit day. You will remember what you saw, but it is not part of you, and you will remember that, too. I am going to count, and you will rise up, away from that darkness … Do you hear me, Ulandra?”
She was calm again. “I hear you.”
“As I count you will rise up, back to this world, and you will awaken. One … you are rising. Two … you have helped us, dear lady. And three, you have helped your kingdom. And you are now ready to … awake.”
Ulandra’s eyes opened and she sat there blinking.
&nb
sp; “Rest for a moment,” Khith said. “Move slowly. Do you remember what happened?”
She gazed up at the Hthras. “Yes, I do. That thing, it’s amusing itself with us, as though we were pieces on a game board.”
“Yes,” Khith said heavily. “I have studied the writings of the Ancients. Boq’urak hs been with us for a long, long time.
It has done this before. Civilizations rise, only to tumble back to barbarism. Species evolve, only to revert to the animals they sprang from. There is the Great Waste … some disaster happened there, so terrible it is still death to walk those sands for more than a scant handful of days. All done at Boq’urak’s doing. We amuse Him.”
“Goddess!” Eregard was pale and shaking. “Then that battle—we fought so hard, yet our victory, it wasn’t … real.”
“The battle went the way He wanted it to go,” Ulandra said.
“And now, He knows who we all are,” Thia murmured.
“Before it was just me He wanted. But now we all had parts to play in bringing about the Pelanese victory. We have become His game pieces.”
They stared at each other as a breeze gently tossed their hair, rustled their clothing.
The setting Sun seemed to have lost its warmth.
“Boq’urak has already tried to kill Thia,” Jezzil said. “I doubt it likes being thwarted. I suspect none of us have long to live.”
Talis drew herself up. “We fought it once, and won,” she said, a warrior’s gleam in her eyes. “We can fight it again.”
Eregard nodded. “I agree. We must fight.”
“What choice do we have?” Jezzil said bleakly. “I am a warrior, as well as an apprentice Adept. I would rather die fighting.”
“If it were all-powerful, none of us would be here now,”
Thia pointed out. “We can’t give up, or the game is over.”
“There are ancient texts,” Khith said. “Perhaps they would tell us more.”
“Where are they?” Thia asked.
“In the Ancient City I fled before coming to Q’Kal,”
Khith said. “It will be perilous to go back. My people have exiled me.”
Storms of Destiny Page 57
