The Sorcery Within

by Dave Smeds

“Let's say I did my best to be sure that he was quick. He didn't seem displeased."

  “And you?” Shigmur almost bit back the comment, fearing that he was being too direct. “You do not find it ... distasteful?"

  “As I said, there are worse roles. I do it of my choosing. That makes anything bearable. The silver does not buy any part of me that matters. Speaking of money, you didn't charge enough."

  “I know,” Shigmur said, wincing. “He didn't even bargain."

  “Next time start with three silver crowns. The more expensive I am, the less I'll have to do this."

  “I understand,” Shigmur replied.

  The jugglers were very good. Shigmur learned that they were going to be among the caravan. A man at a nearby table waved at their antics and called out, “It's going to be an interesting trip, don't you think?"

  “Yes,” Shigmur replied.

  * * * *

  "Faha ebruzh hephanemeni," Yetem said.

  "Faha ebruzh haphenemeni," Shigmur repeated patiently.

  She tried again, and once more pronounced it incorrectly. Shigmur laughed. She couldn't manage the accent, and butchered Azuraji grammar. Nevertheless, during ten days with the caravan, she had picked up a pidgin version of the trade language that was enough to make herself understood.

  “Let me try with them,” she said, and nudged her oeikani forward. Soon she had caught up with a pair of Surudainese merchant's sons and struck up a conversation.

  Shigmur listened to them laugh. Yetem was a favorite within the caravan, though by now only a privileged few could afford her—Shigmur had been astounded how high an asking price he could get for her. If anything, the relative unavailability of her body heightened her appeal. Falling back on a cheerful manner and keen sense of ribaldry, she had by now ingratiated herself with nearly everyone, allowing her to gather a wealth of detail about where they were going. This was the plan, of course.

  Shigmur waved away a cloud of dust. The hardpan and mesa terrain was familiar to him. The caravan was within the T'lil borders. He had, in fact, known the Po-no-pha who had come to collect the tithe. They were over halfway to Xurosh. Most of the expedition consisted of Surudainese and Azuraji traders, but nearby rode the jugglers from Tunaets. The other foreigners included a pair of young drelbs on a rare foray into the Far East, a jeweller from Tamisan, a blacksmith from Numaron, and the soldier from Ireon. The latter frequently dropped by their wagon at night, still hoping that he might be able to rent Yetem's favors for the same price as he had at the wineshop in Thiebef.

  Gradually his glance returned to his side. The canvas sides of their wagon were up, allowing the breeze through. Lonal was perched in a matron posture on thick cushions, visible but silent to the world. Even with the veils, it was obvious what he was looking at.

  Finally Shigmur said, “If you were to have her, none but I would know."

  “I would know,” Lonal answered wistfully.

  Shigmur nodded. It would be a long road.

  * * *

  XXXII

  THE PALACE OF GLOROC TREMBLED. Throughout the structure, even down in the kitchens at the lowest level, the Dragon's servitors felt the vibration and tried to quiet their fears. But their master's distress infected them all, as he reached out aimlessly with the powers that had subdued half a kingdom. Soon many crawled into corners and tried to hide, others became incontinent, and two committed suicide. Even those with strong wills, who were able to detach themselves and understand that their paranoia came from Gloroc and not from the recesses of their own minds, quailed. They had never before known anything that could make the Dragon afraid.

  Only Gloroc's high commanders knew the cause of the turmoil, because they alone had been trusted with the knowledge. Of them, only Beherrig, commander-in-chief, could bring himself to approach the great portals and enter the Dragon's Hall.

  Inside, the psychic turmoil was much greater. It made him momentarily nauseated, but he succeeded in closing the doors, and crossed the antechamber to the edge of the royal pool. There he took off his robes of office and laid them on the tiles. He would go to Gloroc naked, as all men were when they met the Dragon face to face, whether their bodies were clothed or not. Beherrig took one of the airmakers that waited in the trough by the edge of the pool, fitted the gear over his face, and dived into the water.

  He swam the length of the entry corridor carefully, breath regular and controlled, wary of his master's irrational state. Gloroc was at the far side of the tremendous chamber.

  The Dragon no longer resembled the gigantic worm of Beherrig's youth. The serpentine torso was longer—now three times the length of a man—and covered with an iridescent mesh of scales. The sight of his teeth could render a man impotent. Two pair of legs, rudimentary though they seemed compared to the rest of his form, were large enough that he could wrap his talons completely around a human waist. The huge wings fanned out to either side like leather sails—Beherrig had to struggle to maintain his position against the current created by their frantic strokes. Only the eyes were the same—deep jewels of indigo that consumed the self-determination of all who looked within them.

  "Master," Beherrig called when Gloroc failed to acknowledge him.

  No result. The Dragon spasmed, sweeping continuously toward the shut doors that dominated the ceiling of the hall. His body slammed against the vartham, shaking the entire building once again. But the dome had been built to defend Gloroc from attack, and even his formidable physical strength had no effect. Beherrig concentrated and bespoke his master again.

  The answer nearly blacked him out. "Beherrig! Aid me! It is time!" This was the rational part of the message; beneath were garbled images and hallucinations that would have been deadly if focused. The crisis had rendered Gloroc helpless. It was all the Dragon could do to coherently communicate his need. But Beherrig had been forewarned, and knew what to do. It was simply a matter of summoning the courage.

  The man no longer hesitated. He swam with all the speed and stamina that his well-trained, middle-aged body could manage. His route took him directly past Gloroc. Once, a thrashing limb nearly disembowelled him, while twice the turbulence caused by the wings forced him to the side. But he won past, to the thick gold wheel that controlled the roof portal.

  Beherrig braced his heels against the floor and gripped the ring, which stood as high as his chest. The spindle wouldn't turn. It was designed for the Dragon himself, and when others were occasionally called upon to use it, the duty fell to two strong men. Gloroc thrashed, and the whirlpool caught Beherrig and flung his feet out. He held on to the metal and set at it again, hoping Gloroc would regain enough composure to manage it himself but knowing that they couldn't afford to take the chance. The change was imminent; already the Dragon's gills fluttered wildly.

  "I am dying," Gloroc bespoke, and the fear he transmitted desiccated Beherrig's strength. The man despaired, barely keeping a grip on the ring.

  Yes. The Dragon would die. Beherrig would die. Dreams of empire would shatter. Nothing had ever been more certain. He hung slack, arms outstretched, while Gloroc's violence stilled. For the first time in his life, Beherrig heard the whimper of a dragon.

  Perspective suddenly returned. The Dragon had withdrawn into himself, freeing his servant of his psychic influence. Before he could be drawn in again, Beherrig ground his feet into the stone and strained.

  The tumblers moved, picking up momentum, their engineering so perfect that, once started, they pulled their operator with them. Beherrig held on instinctively, legs trailing behind as he was pulled in faster and faster circles. He let go just in time to see the sight of his life.

  The great dome split down the middle, each side vanishing into its niche. Gloroc, mentally trumpeting his elation, thrust with all limbs through the widening crack, swimming upward and leaving behind a cometlike stream of bubbles. From vantage points all across the underwater city, citizens looked up in awe at the plume racing surfaceward.

  As they patrolled the tower tops of
the city, sentries saw a geyser rise high above them and sprout wings. When the Dragon's exultation reached them, it knocked them to their bellies or off the air funnels they guarded into the ocean below. Gloroc glided over his throne city and felt the membrane burst inside, flooding his virgin lungs with air, shutting his gills forever. The waves heard dragon laughter for the first time in fifteen centuries.

  Gloroc was an adult now, no longer restricted to the seas. Nature had removed the single greatest impediment to his ambitions. Let the sons of Alemar beware.

  * * *

  XXXIII

  THE WOMAN KNELT AT THE EDGE of the oasis. She was naked except for a leather loincloth. Like most Zyraii, her skin was slightly copperish, but Gast could tell she was not a native. Zyraii women never went naked in public. She was dipping waterskins into the pool to fill them. Alemar stared at her breasts as they swayed back and forth over the water.

  “Been a long time since you've seen that much woman?” The healer smiled.

  Alemar did not react. He remained in the shade of the palms that surrounded the pool, rigidly holding the baskets which they had come to fill.

  Then Gast felt it, tickling the edges of his senses. It was unmistakable. No Hab-no-ken could have ignored it. At once, the older man was in a nostalgic reverie, recalling his own apprenticeship and that potent, irresistible moment when the power manifested.

  “Who is she?” Alemar asked, not bothering to take his eyes away.

  “A slave."

  “She is ... is..."

  “Yes."

  They regarded the girl for a few moments. She was about Alemar's age, healthy, youthfully lean, and blessed with long, luxuriant hair. She filled the waterskins listlessly. When she turned toward them, her glance was vacant.

  “What do I do?” Alemar asked plaintively.

  “You will heal,” Gast stated. “Come. Let's go back to the tent. You'll have to prepare for this."

  The slave finished her task and lifted as many of the skins as she could carry, taking them back toward the tent of the patriarch of the oasis. Gast led Alemar in another direction.

  * * * *

  “Now?"

  “Yes,” the Hab-no-ken's apprentice replied. “Is there a problem with that?"

  “No, no,” the patriarch answered. He glanced over at Ilyrra. His slave was churning butter. “I would be honored to do all I can. You are welcome to her.” It was good luck to favor a Hab-no-ken, as any Zyraii knew. Yet he was puzzled. The last time he had noticed, the healer and his student had been engrossed in their work, boiling their concoction. This sudden interest in his slave girl had taken him by surprise. The young man did not seem, even now, particularly urgent with lust.

  The patriarch shrugged. He pointed to the screened grove, his own retreat for times such as this. “Wait there. I will send her to you."

  * * * *

  The slave girl appeared out of the fronds surrounding the tiny clearing. She stopped at the edge of the blanket on which Alemar waited, perfunctorily removed her loincloth, and sat down near him. The mottled sunlight created patterns on her shoulders; a faint breeze toyed with the ends of her hair. If not for the perpetual aloofness reflected in her face, she would have been beautiful.

  “How may I serve my lord?"

  “What is your name?” Alemar asked.

  “Ilyrra,” she said, expressionless.

  “Lay here, on your stomach,” he said, pointing to the center of the blanket and reaching for the small ceramic jar at his side.

  She obeyed. He dipped his fingers in the jar and began rubbing the cream it contained onto her peeling shoulders and back. She seemed surprised, the first active emotion she had shown.

  “You'd waste that on a slave?"

  “Why not? There's plenty of it.” At the moment, this was particularly true. Alemar and Gast had spent the past three days making it, taking advantage of the local plants. They had been obtaining more water for the process when they had encountered Ilyrra at the pool.

  “Your master should be more careful of you. Too much exposure to the sun will ruin your skin,” he added.

  She shrugged.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “If it would please you."

  “Yes. It would."

  “You are one of the strange priests they talk about—the Hab-no-ken."

  “An apprentice, only. I've only been studying with my master for eight months.” He finished applying the salve and sat back. She rolled on her side, facing him.

  “Is that why you're not...” She gestured at her own body.

  “None of the Hab-no-ken are required to refrain from sex, as far as I know."

  “You asked for me. I ... my master thought..."

  “Don't bother about that right now. Tell me about yourself. Talk to me about your past."

  She frowned. “No."

  “Where do you come from?” Alemar insisted. “It's important that you tell me."

  She hesitated. “Shol."

  That would explain why she knew the language. Cadra, founder of Zyraii, had come from those plains north of the Sea of Azu. The dialects were still very similar.

  “You were not a slave there,” Alemar said firmly. “True?"

  She was staring at his chest. There the green of his robes had become greener still. He reached inside his collar and removed the amulet. He wouldn't need it. The sorcery welling up inside him needed no focus. A power was awakening that he had never suspected existed within him. The amulet was simply acknowledging the presence of the magic.

  She stared at the brilliance of the amulet as he put it down, but he turned her eyes to his own. “Speak,” he commanded. “Don't stop. Tell me of your life, from Shol until you came to this place."

  She quailed but could not turn away from him. Gradually, almost without her conscious volition, her mouth began to form words.

  “My uncle was a tax collector for the khan...” she began.

  * * * *

  Ilyrra heard the commotion and hurried to the balcony. Down in the inner courtyard, four large men in the uniform of the khan's guard were dragging her uncle across the flagstones. There was blood on his face.

  She heard a crash in the servants’ quarters downstairs: porcelain shattering on the floor.

  A hand appeared on her shoulder. She jumped. But it was only her older cousin Hameela.

  “What is happening?” Ilyrra asked. “Why are they doing this?"

  Hameela, as usual, was handling the crisis with far greater composure than Ilyrra. She pulled them both into a storeroom. “The khan must have discovered how much money Father has been keeping for his own purse. We are ruined. We must flee for our lives."

  They heard heavy boots on the stairs.

  “They are coming into the women's quarters!” Ilyrra cried, disbelieving.

  “We are too late,” Hameela said. Her eyes darted around the chamber. “Here,” she said, shoving Ilyrra bodily toward a trunk in the corner. She opened the lid, removed the top layer of the silks it contained, and urged her cousin inside. The fit was tight, but Ilyrra managed it. Hameela replaced the silks and closed the lid.

  Ilyrra heard Hameela move away from the trunk. Then came the sound of men's voices. There was a scuffle and rude laughter. Ilyrra put a knot of silk in her mouth and bit down on it. She could tell—from the tearing of cloth, from the heavy grunts, from the vibrations of the floor beneath her—what was being done to Hameela. The noises never seemed to stop. At no time, however, did she hear her cousin give them the benefit of a single whimper. Finally, when Ilyrra could hardly bear it anymore, it was over.

  But the silence was worse. Long before the footsteps had faded, before the wailing of the other women of the house had stilled, Ilyrra wanted to leave her hiding place and run. Where she would go she did not know. She was a daughter of respectable birth; she had never seen much beyond the confines of the women's quarters of her father's and her uncle's houses. But at least she would be away from them. It took all her small
store of discipline to force herself to stay where she was.

  It became quiet. Now and then, she detected a muffled thud in some far chamber, nothing more. Her own heartbeat began to overwhelm her ears. At last, tentatively, she began to push on the trunk lid.

  When she had lifted it a few inches, it was suddenly yanked out of her grip. A huge, heavily scarred guardsman smiled down at her.

  * * * *

  "No!" she screamed.

  She opened her eyes, barely recognizing the foliage above her. A pair of hands gently held her head. She struggled to free herself.

  “Not yet,” Alemar murmured. “You must see this through."

  “No! I don't want to!” she wept, but her will was not the equal of his spell. The memory continued.

  * * * *

  He was hairy. He stank. Her strength was nothing against his. He threw her to the floor, his claws made ribbons of her delicate gown. When she tried to bite him, he lost patience, stunned her with a backhand across her cheek, and rolled her on her belly to enter her from behind.

  She squeezed her legs together, thwarting his penetration. This only increased his anger. He held her pinned with one hand around both her wrists and grabbed a jug of olive oil from a shelf. He spilled the oil between her legs and mounted her once again. The slickness, along with the violence of his effort, prevented her from keeping him out.

  She felt it pierce her, deep and bruising. She nearly fainted. He ignored her pain, thrusting stronger and stronger with each stroke. She could feel the heat of the blood as it trickled out of her. She put her face down and cried until her tongue lay in the storeroom dust and her hair was matted from her tears.

  * * * *

  The patriarch heard an almost inhuman scream from the grove and jumped to his feet. “What was that?” he demanded.

  Gast pulled gently at the patriarch's sleeve, beckoning him back to the mat where they were sharing tea outside the latter's tent. “Sometimes healing is a painful process."

  “What is happening in there?” the patriarch insisted.

  Gast smiled warmly. “A Hab-no-ken is being born. Be at peace, Abisha. Not many are privileged to witness this.”