The Sorcery Within

by Dave Smeds

  Shigmur led them to the spring in a shady nullah on the south side of the spires. It was a permanent water hole, blessed with two full-grown whitedown trees, seldom seen away from the river. The trees had just begun to shed. Alemar watched the puffs settle on the surface of the pool, each tiny black seed carried windward on dozens of white, hairlike filaments. The seeds might travel a hundred leagues before finding a rooting place with enough water to sustain an adult tree.

  “The spoor of a man,” Shigmur announced as he stooped over a patch of mud. “Many traces, all made by the same pair of feet, over many days."

  The three men checked for other signs while the oeikani filled their seemingly bottomless reservoirs with the spring water. They found remnants of old meals, charcoal, more footprints.

  “Where is he?” Alemar demanded.

  Shigmur shrugged. “Obviously his permanent camp is not here. We can wait. He may need to come for water soon."

  “Let Zhanee stay. We can split up and search the area."

  Shigmur bowed his head. “No. It's better we stay together."

  Alemar paused. “You still don't trust me, do you?"

  “Lonal would have my manhood if I lost you."

  “I'm hardly going to run away with Yetem still back in the camp."

  “I know. That's why Lonal let you come, with only two Po-no-pha to accompany you."

  “What if I said I would duel you?” Alemar asked.

  “I would laugh,” Shigmur said.

  Alemar popped his knuckles one by one. “All right, then—we stay together. But I can't just sit and wait. You know something of this area—where else would a man be likely to be found?"

  Shigmur mulled it over while he filled his waterbag. “Well, I might look for an ordinary man along the game trails or at a salt flat. Since we are seeking a Hab-no-ken, perhaps we should climb the spires."

  “Why?"

  “Some of them ... like to fly."

  “They like to what?” Alemar was certain his Zyraii was deficient.

  “They fly through the air—gliding like a vulture."

  Alemar decided that the Po-no-pha was not joking. “Just how do they manage this?"

  “I have only seen it once. They jump from a high place, like the spires, inside a cage of light wood. The cage hangs from a great cloth canopy. The winds carry them many miles."

  Alemar looked at the imposing height of the nearest spire. “I hope I live to see this miracle,” he announced.

  * * * *

  He got his wish. Two hours later, as they negotiated the convoluted trail up the spire, Shigmur suddenly reined in and pointed skyward.

  “Look!"

  A brilliant triangle of green had separated from the upper reaches of the rock, passing far overhead without sound. From that distance, the man and the apparatus that supported him looked like dark specks on the cloth. It flew well.

  “That must be him,” Shigmur said.

  Alemar's hope sank. The glider sped in moments over badland terrain that would take men on oeikani-back hours to cover. Yet he saw little choice but to follow.

  “Come on,” he said sourly, “let's try to find him when he lands."

  * * * *

  They had lost him. Alemar was sure of it. They had only been able to track the glider for a few minutes, and it had taken half the day to reach the point where, as best they could determine, it had landed. Now the sun was descending, and despite searching through the heat of noon, they had found no trace of the contraption or the man who allegedly flew inside it.

  They meandered down a shallow gorge, the clop of their oeikani hooves echoing repeatedly from one side to the other. While Shigmur and Zhanee continued on, Alemar stopped, overcome by the sensation that he was being watched.

  He jerked his head suddenly toward a glut of boulders to his left. There, a man stood so still that, though he was in plain sight, he was difficult to see, in spite of the bright green robes he wore and the wide straw hat on his head. Even as Alemar stared, the figure seemed to fade in and out. Finally the young Cilendri noticed the pulse coming from his amulet.

  Of course. The man was exerting a simple spell of concealment.

  The man in green realized the ineffectiveness of his magic. It abruptly ceased. The stranger called out to the two Zyraii, who had not yet noticed that they had left their companion behind.

  “May I help you?” he shouted.

  Shigmur and Zhanee spun in their saddles. The war-second was the first to regain his composure. “Our apologies for disturbing you, holy one. We seek a boon."

  “I am on Retreat,” he said. The words weighed like stones on Alemar's hope. “What do you need of me?"

  Shigmur nodded toward Alemar. “It is best for him to explain."

  The Hab-no-ken shifted his glance. Alemar had not seen eyes with such extra depth since the last time he had seen Obo. The man was about fifty, though that was hard to tell for certain. The desert wore out bodies early. If his green robes—the first of that color Alemar had seen in Zyraii—seemed incongruous, so did the kindness of his face. Alemar had never thought to see that emotion so firmly set in any Zyraii countenance. He was reminded of Rictane, Lord Dran's old stablemaster, who had worn that look at his own wake.

  “My ... son needs a healer. I don't know what to do for him. I need your help."

  “You have a strange accent,” the Hab-no-ken said. “Where are you from?"

  “Cilendrodel."

  “Yet you wear the robes of a Po-no-pha. What tribe?"

  “The T'lil. T'krt clan."

  “Our war-leader adopted him by rite of niutap,” Shigmur explained.

  “Indeed?” The healer seemed increasingly intrigued. Alemar had the unnerving sensation that the man was looking not so much at him as through him. “This son—did you bring him from Cilendrodel?"

  “He is also mine by virtue of niutap."

  “Yet when you speak of him, I see a woman in your mind, and a forest."

  Alemar jumped.

  “Be at peace, Po-no-pha,” the healer said reassuringly. “We will have plenty of time to talk.” He jumped nimbly down the boulders and lit on a spot between the mounted men. “My name is Gast. As I said, I am on Retreat, and ordinarily I would refuse your summons. But it is not every day I find a man who can see a Hab-no-ken when a Hab-no-ken does not wish to be seen. My rituals can be broken. Let us see what is wrong with this boy of yours.”

  * * *

  XXV

  OBO FOUND ALEMAR BY THE GRAVESIDE. The boy was kneeling in the forest mulch, gaze locked on the recently turned earth. If he had heard the old wizard approach, he did not show it. Obo remained back among the foliage of the trees, too caught in his own sorrow to offer any words of consolation.

  The heavy, bitter shroud of failure settled on his shoulders. Intellectually, Obo knew he was not the cause of Lerina's death, but it was not easy to believe that in his heart. Though Alemar would never say it aloud, Obo could hear the question Why, if you could save my father, couldn't you save my mother? It would do no good to remind his young ward that sorcery was not a chosen skill, but the development of talents one might, or might not, be born with, and that Obo, like all wizards, was limited in what types of magic he could perform. That excuse would not change what had happened.

  Alemar was virtually a man now, at his full height, strong and black-haired like his father. He had the short but lithe physique so prevalent among the House of Olendim. A fine boy—a fine man. To see him so bereaved dried out Obo's throat, made his arms shudder with pent-up anger at the fates. Of all the trials Alemar could have faced, the death of his mother was the worst. Obo had seldom seen a parent and child more emotionally close. It would be a long time before he recovered.

  Elenya had already accepted the tragedy. She was hard, that one, full of her mother's spice and her father's stubbornness. Though she had loved Lerina as deeply as her brother, Obo knew Elenya would find a vent for her outrage—she would blame the world. Alemar would keep it i
nside, find a way to blame himself. He would have to be watched.

  Obo found his own hope in that fact. If he could help the boy through this, that would partially make up for his unsuccessful attempt to help Lerina. Alemar, along with his twin, had shown the marks of the Dragonslayer's power more than any of the dynasty. More than that, he was a good person, of the kind Obo had seen far too seldom within the royal family in Elandris. Obo would not let so much human and sorcerous potential be warped by grief.

  The wizard heard a subtle rustling in the dead leaves at the base of the tree next to the grave. At first, Obo could barely make out the tiny, manlike shapes, then they walked into the light. He stayed very still, watching the rythni as they came to Alemar and touched him lightly on the knee. The young man's trance broke. He lifted one of the fairy creatures in his palm.

  Obo heard the rythni speak in a shrill, singsong voice. Alemar answered briefly, in the same language.

  Obo smiled, and stopped worrying so deeply. The boy had his sister, his grandfather, Lord Dran and his household—too many who cared for his well-being to let him slide into permanent melancholy. And if these were not enough, the rythni would be there, with their laughter and music, special allies that few other humans in Cilendrodel could claim.

  Obo watched for a few more moments, then slipped quietly away. The wizard had one pressing task yet to perform, a duty that he would have given a great deal to avoid. He felt very old. He wanted to put it off. But there was no way around it. He would have to know.

  Obo found parchment and pen, and prepared the letter that would take the news to Elandris.

  * * *

  XXVI

  “HOW IS HE?” ALEMAR ASKED as he dismounted. He and his companions looked as if they had spent the entire day on a forced gallop. Elenya couldn't help but gawk at the outlandish stranger in green, from the weathered hat to the scraggly beard. Her brother had to repeat the question before she answered.

  “He's in pain, but alive."

  Gast stared equally hard at Elenya as he handed his reins to her. “Yetem, my brother,” Alemar said, then introduced the healer.

  Gast shook his head in amazement. “You must have played the Bu very strangely in your last life to have been reincarnated in a body like this."

  Alemar was already hurrying toward the tent. Gast followed.

  Elenya stood, flabbergasted, then turned to Shigmur and Zhanee. The war-second chuckled and said, “He is Hab-no-ken,” as if that explained everything.

  Elenya hurried to deal with the animals, wishing she could unload the chore on a wife, but grooming and husbandry were male tasks. She corralled them, threw out feed, and jogged back to the tent.

  When she ducked under the flap, complete silence greeted her. Omi, Peyri, Meyr, and Sesheer stood in a huddle near the purdah; Alemar waited alone on the opposite side. The priest knelt in the center, cradling Rol's head in his palms. Gast's eyes had glazed over. Rol, lying prone and naked, glanced drowsily at Elenya. After a few twitches and moans, he fell asleep.

  Elenya's amulet gave out a dull warning. She and Alemar exchanged glances. She hardly needed the hints. She could smell sorcery at work.

  Where was his talisman? How was he focusing his power?

  The healer returned quietly to alertness. He stood up, laying Rol's head carefully back on its pillow. “I'll need your assistance,” he told the twins.

  “Certainly,” Alemar said. “How may we help?"

  “The technique I must use will create some pain. Even in his sleep, he may thrash. It could endanger his life. Station yourselves at his shoulders and knees, and be ready to hold him down should it be necessary."

  They took up their positions, Alemar at his foster son's head. Gast began breathing in an exact, slow-paced rhythm, his hands limp against the skin of the boy's lower right abdomen.

  Elenya stared. It seemed as though Gast had not moved at all, but something was odd. Eventually, she realized what it was. The tips of the healer's fingers had disappeared into Rol's body. The boy stirred, and the twins held him firm. By this time Gast's fingers had sunk in to their entire length.

  She saw the Hab-no-ken began to manipulate Rol's abdomen, searching by touch for the root of the illness. Then his limbs began to shake. His breathing lost its rhythm. Her amulet began to flicker.

  He's losing it, she thought. His spell is breaking up. She saw Gast lick his lips. He had gone pale, and looked much older than a few moments before.

  Then, suddenly, she felt a vibration through Rol's body. The Hab-no-ken looked startled, but he bent his efforts back to the task. Soon Elenya deduced from the shifting of his hand muscles that the healer was pinching something. He remained there for a full minute, then carefully lifted away his hands. Rol's flesh was unmarked.

  Gast held a bloated, angry-looking, oblong section of tissue over the boy's unmarked belly. “Bring your chamber pot,” the priest ordered the women.

  Omi rushed into the back of the tent and returned with the urn. Gast dropped the appendix inside. Immediately a horrid pus stench filled the room. Omi held her nose and left immediately to dump the pot.

  “If I had not come when I did, it would have burst internally, and then no power of mine would have saved him,” Gast declared. “I almost failed. I should not have interrupted my Retreat.” He turned to Alemar. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

  Alemar was shaking. “I felt your need, and ... the energy came."

  “That sort of power must be properly channelled in childhood, or you'd never be able to use it as an adult. Why didn't you tell me you'd been trained in the art?"

  “I didn't want to waste any time getting back here."

  “Do you know how rare you are?” Gast whispered.

  “The man who taught me gave me some idea."

  “Why couldn't you save the boy yourself?"

  “My master only knew how to heal wounds and injuries. That's all he taught me."

  “The Lesser Art,” Gast said. “It's all some healers can manage. Disease has a different taste. Yet I sensed in you the ability to use the Greater. You mustn't let that go to waste. It will fade if not developed."

  “What do you mean?"

  “I can teach you. Become my apprentice; come with me into the hills."

  Alemar began to tremble. Elenya understood every bit of his turmoil.

  “I am a prisoner here,” he said desperately.

  Gast frowned. “I'm not sure what you mean, but rest assured—no one in this land interferes with the prerogatives of a Hab-no-ken. If I decide to take you with me, only the word of the High Scholar could stop me."

  That had done it, Elenya realized. Alemar choked short his reply, almost to tears. She grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him toward the exit. “Excuse us,” she told Gast. “My brother and I have to talk."

  They walked away from the tent, ignoring the glances from nearby tents, and of the children in the area who had collected in hopes of seeing the Hab-no-ken. They spoke in Cilendri, Alemar unable to keep the quaver out of his voice.

  “You have to go,” she insisted.

  “How can I?” he croaked. “I couldn't leave you here."

  In truth, the thought of living alone among the tribe terrified her, but she stifled her own desires. “You know what this would mean to you. When will you get an opportunity like this again?"

  He sighed. “Mother is dead. I can't save her after the fact."

  Elenya knew Alemar was not as reconciled as he was pretending to be. He wanted to go, but he was afraid. What if he succeeded in learning the Greater Art? Lerina would still be dead. It had been a comfort of sorts to believe that nothing could have saved her. He would lose that buffer if he went. If Elenya didn't do something to jolt him, he would rationalize himself into staying. The fact was that she could survive without him. She had to think.

  It came to her.

  She pressed close to him, activating the amulets. She bespoke him with all the force she could muster. "Hab-no-ken complete th
eir training in Setan."

  He hesitated, shocked. He understood.

  “I can continue with our original plan by myself,” she said. “That way, we will double our chances of getting there."

  He nodded, the light of excitement growing in his pupils. She had eliminated his dilemma in the most straightforward way she knew—she had made it his duty to go with the healer. By his expression she knew she had done the right thing.

  Now all she had to do was reconcile herself to the consequences.

  * * * *

  “No,” Lonal said.

  “You have no choice,” Gast said. He held up Alemar's wrist, around which was tied a piece of green cloth. “I exercise the right of Hab-shah. He is no longer T'lil. He belongs to all Zyraii."

  A small crowd had gathered. There were murmurs. It had been decades since any of the clan had been selected to become a Hab-no-ken. It had never happened to an adult.

  “Silence!” Lonal shouted.

  He was obeyed. He continued to the healer, “This man has designs to reach Setan."

  Gast shrugged. “Then he shall succeed, should he complete his apprenticeship. I will not permit him near the sacred grounds unless it is clear to me that he will do them no harm. In any event, it is my responsibility now, not yours."

  Lonal was adamant. “He is Po-no-pha. You propose to take a warrior and transform him into the very opposite of what he has been?"

  “God makes those choices,” Gast said. “Tebec has the gift. Whatever else he has done with his life, it would be a crime to let that talent be squandered."

  “He can serve the tribe well just as he is."

  Gast smiled, unintimidated. “Do you challenge the law, war-leader?"

  Lonal was silent. Some of the observers held their breath. No one within the tribe, short of the Bo-no-ken, would have dared challenge the war-leader in such a manner.

  “No, I didn't think so,” Gast said presently.

  Lonal turned to Alemar. “You will abandon your brother?"