Beyond the Veil

by Janet Morris

  "You hate Rankans, you say, but Grille's a friend of yours. True?"

  Bashir nodded and Tempus could see his pulse beat in a neck thick with muscle. "We've helped each other," the warrior-priest admitted.

  "He needs your help now. He'll lose the town. I'm pulling my forces out and we'll be leaving—" "You," interrupted a voice from the doorway, feminine and sultry, "brother, are right, for once. It must be a coincidence, it can't be luck—you've long ago used up all of yours, and the god you serve is too craven and too weak to be telling you secrets, these days."

  "Hello, Cime," Tempus said dryly, not looking away from Bashir. "To what ill fortune do we owe this visit?" But as he spoke he could feel her gaze boring into his flesh and her body calling to his. The old excitement he always felt in her presence rose up in him and he thought that, since the god of rape and pillage who once inhabited him was absent these days, perhaps he'd rape her and find out if the Storm God of the South was truly gone. If Vashanka wasn't imprisoned or incapacitated, the rape of Cime would bring Him back, full force. Thinking this, he bared his teeth.

  She hadn't answered. She came around where he could see her. She was just as beautiful and arrogant as ever. He had to remind himself that she was, by pact and consent of everyone but him, the consort of Aškelon, the dream lord. And then he thought that if he dared, he could use this albatross in woman-form for good, this once: he could take her from Ash and make Ash release Niko to get her back.

  So he rose up and, for the first time in years, of his own accord and with all the prodigious passion of his person, took his sister in his arms and kissed her. When he let her go, Bashir's eyes were downcast.

  Chest heaving, Cime folded gracefully down into a cross-legged posture beside Bashir, where Niko so recently had been, and poured herself some Nisibisi blood wine with shaking hands.

  Tempus sat, too, then, watching her, for once sure that he'd gotten the best of her, if only evanescently. Seeing Cime nonplussed was something he'd long dreamed of—as he'd wondered, off and on throughout the centuries, how it would have been for them if, in their youth, his father hadn't insisted that, despite all evidence, she was his blood relation, and given her over to an arch-mage to wed. From that unfortunate decision, born of passions between Tempus's father and his stepmother only those two understood, had come the curse on both the children, his involvement with the gods and hers with antisorcerous magic, a contradiction, he had often thought, in terms, but one which made her deadly to the adepts she stalked through all the years of time.

  She was contrite, now, and friendly; she'd gone into her seductress's act. This time, like as not, he'd let her have what she so dearly wanted… No! He shook his head, realizing that she'd almost got to him, and said to her, "By the way, does this visitation mean the dream lord's on his way to fetch you? Have you escaped from him?" Bashir muttered blackly, a petition to his god. "Still afraid of Ash, my sweet brother? Don't be. He's on our side. He let me come. I'm here with his blessing to make sure you win this war this time. No one wants a botch of it. You never finish anything, your engagements just drag on and—"

  "What war?" Bashir broke in, trying to follow a conversation which wasn't held in Nisi, or any one tongue, but a polyglot of dead and living languages brother and sister both knew all too well.

  "What war? Oh, Bashir," Cime licked her lips, pretending concern, and ran a finger down his face from his flaring cheekbone to his mouth. Then she patted his cheek thrice saying, "Poor man. You've been so busy you haven't had the time to look out your turret window, is that it? Or is your god, Father Enlil, playing another one of his fearsome games? Can it be that neither one of you has read the writing on the wall? That magic has conquered heaven one more time? That you don't know?"

  As Bashir demanded that she explain herself, Cime waved a hand and on the far wall words in Nisi appeared, chiseled by enchantment deep into the stone: The Mygdonian army, two divisions strong, approaches from the northeast.

  As one man, Bashir and Tempus jumped up and dashed over to the crenelations, Cime's laughter echoing in their wake. "You two should see how comical you look…"

  "There's nothing there!" Bashir glared back at her.

  "Tsk, tsk, of course there is. You are just too blind to see it, both of you."

  She joined them, diamond rods taken down from her hair and aglow in her hands, and pointed. "There, in the far distance. Surely you can see them now, among yonder hills where the trail is dark."

  And they could, though without her ensorceled wands no human eye could ever have discerned the Mygdonian army so far away.

  * * *

  By the second night Niko wasn't sleeping well in Bashir's fortress. He was trying not to sleep at all: standing up on one foot, then the other, in Bandaran exercise postures that should have refreshed him in lieu of sleep, but weren't working here. He'd catch himself when he began to fall, prop his body against a wall, and start the whole procedure over again. Stand on the right leg, left foot tucked up against his groin; struggle for balance; gain it; let his head fall back; lose consciousness; fall forward; catch himself on his hands; straighten up and begin again.

  The blue flames he'd seen licking at these walls and the moans from hell he'd heard weren't visible or audible to Tempus. Not even Bashir seemed to understand what Niko was hinting at, and Nikodemos wasn't about to explain it outright: he didn't want the Riddler or Bashir to think he'd lost his nerve or that his mind had snapped from too many brushes with witchcraft.

  He found himself wishing that Randal were here, worrying that his partner might not come. Despite the Riddler's summons—sent by homing hawk to Tyse to marshal all their forces—one never knew with Hazards, though Niko's heart said that Randal wouldn't desert him.

  Meditation soon became the only refuge left to Niko. His rest-place offered refreshment without the loss of consciousness; he could regain his strengh in his green and fertile valley without surrendering his volition or losing touch with his conscious mind. But Aškelon was there, sometimes, compassionate and understanding, true—but there.

  Niko didn't want a consultation; by his own reckoning, he hadn't even begun to fulfill his obligation, honor his word to the dream lord. He hadn't done a single thing to spread the entelechy's name or glorify him.

  Once, when he was too weary to care and ready for whatever lecture or chastisement Aškelon would give him, he lay down in his rest-place on grass he could feel, its every blade distinct and dewy, though he knew he was yet propped against the black marble wall. Clouds drifted overhead, diaphanous, then fluffy. The feeling of relief that overcame him was unmatched by anything he'd known in the world or even in Bandara.

  But then a shadow fell and the dream lord's gray and loving eyes transfixed him. "Tell Tempus that Shamshi must be brought to me."

  "I argued with him once about the boy—I wanted to take Shamshi to Bandara. It's not my place to tell the Riddler what to do." The ground seemed cold now, unyielding.

  "Then you bring him to me. Otherwise, my son, young Randal will have a child's blood upon his hands to satisfy Belize's shade."

  "Shade? Blood? Wait! I don't understand…"

  But Aškelon and Niko's rest-place were fading; he could see the furnishings of his chamber like an apparition taking shape. "Wait!"

  Aškelon, translucent, turned and came toward him.

  "What shall I do?"

  Aškelon inclined his head. "The best you can. Heed your dreams. Guard your soul. Follow your heart. That will be enough." Aškelon's hand reached out and Niko knew he was supposed to take it, but as he tried to, the dream lord and his rest-place disappeared and Niko lost his balance once again, this time falling forward to land, breathing hard and sweating, upon the cold stone floor of Wizard-wall's second-highest tower.

  A woman was there, a Nisibisi girl, with a platter of food and drink and a bowl of water into which she dipped a rag and then came forward with it dripping in her hand.

  "Who are you?" he asked. "How long have
you been there?" He felt foolish, embarrassed. She'd seen him fall, probably heard him talking—seemingly to himself, as if delirious.

  "I've come to ease your troubled night. Lie back. Let me put this on your brow. That's good. That's fine," she crooned as he rolled over.

  The cloth was cool and her hands were soothing and he never realized she reminded him of his lost girl-witch Cybele as her touch drove everything but fleshly comfort from his mind and he pulled her down on him.

  In the morning, when he tried to apologize to Bashir for taking advantage of a Nisibisi maiden, Bashir denied having sent anyone to see to him while Tempus caught his sister's eye and Niko saw the worried look they shared.

  An hour later, after obvious contrivance, he and his commander were alone. "I had a dream about Aškelon," Niko said. "There was a message for you in it. Do you put any store in messages that come from dreams, commander?"

  "It depends on the dream and the dreamer. Tell me yours."

  Niko did, finishing with: "I wish I knew you'd not blame me for bearing bad tidings."

  "Blame you? It's Ash I blame, for making you a pawn in this."

  "Will you give up the boy?"

  "Absolutely—to his lawful father in Mygdonia when the time is right."

  Niko grunted. "I thought that was what you'd say. I shouldn't have told you anything… it's probably just a dream of mine. I haven't been sleeping well."

  "So I assumed. Tell me about the girl who came to you. Describe her."

  As Niko did, he started to sneeze and his head began to ache. Ignoring this, he continued, daring to tell Tempus about the phantasms he'd sensed lurking in the halls and poking their heads out of solid walls and the blue flames that licked at the corners of his vision.

  "What do you propose we do about it?"

  Niko spread his hands. "Sleep outside with the troops? I don't know. I know I can't sleep another night in here."

  Tempus's eyes narrowed as if Nikodemos had said something important. "Good point. Are you well enough, sniffles or no, to trek on out tonight? Beyond Wizardwall, just you and I, on long reconnaissance to cause what harm we may among the Mygdonians?"

  "Blessed be Ask—" Almost having praised the dream lord like a god, Niko stopped himself and said hastily, "Yes, sir, commander. I was hoping you would say that."

  "Good. Get ready, requisition what we need from Bashir's stores. We leave at dusk, just you and—"

  "Leave?" came a silky voice from behind Tempus. "Without me? Surely, brother, you can't mean that."

  "Niko, please excuse us. I've instructions to leave for those who'll come after us."

  He was glad enough to go: the Riddler's sister was the only woman Niko'd ever known who made him thoroughly nervous. He prayed that the Rid-dler would leave her far behind, that she wouldn't be riding with them.

  And in the soft dusk, with the Aškelonians snorting their joy to be away from the Nisibisi stronghold and a chill wind in their faces as they headed north, it seemed that Niko's prayer was answered.

  Just the two of them, the Riddler and the young fighter, Nikodemos, set out to war among the Mygdonians.

  This pleased Niko greatly, and it must have pleased the gods as well, for as they rode the chill wind died and the whispering pines enfolded them and Nikodemos, safe upon his great war horse at the Riddler's side, dozed in his saddle without a single evil dream or manifestation of the shadow lord appearing to bedevil him.

  Book Five:

  BEYOND WIZARDWALL

  An epidemic ripped through Tyse like Lord Storm's lightning, sending the strong to their beds and the weak to their graves. Only strangers and the refugees in the free-zone blamed the gods for their misfortune—veterans of previous wizard wars had suffered through worse in Tyse; they knew sorcery was to blame.

  This explanation the Stepsons gave to the 3rd Commando and the priests to their congregations, so that crowds with rotten eggs and moldy vegetables and wineskins full of lamb's blood began to gather before the mageguild.

  Crit and Sync had to deploy men along Mageway to help the garrison troops control the mobs. As soon as one chanting throng was out of eggs or beaten back, another would form. The only result of this milling and shouting before the mageguild was that the disease spread faster.

  The Hazards of Tyse barricaded themselves within ensorceled walls and withheld the only aid that might have helped.

  Nor were the 3rd Commando rangers, quartered in Tyse's northern garrison, immune to this sickness which began with a red rash on the neck and escalated rapidly to sneezing and congestion, then a fever followed by coma and, in most cases, death. Garlic was hung on doorposts; incense burned by every sickbed. Rankan gods were petitioned for mercy but still commandos sickened.

  When three of his rangers had died, Sync came to Crit, demanding to know what secret defense the Stepsons had: not one of them had even caught a chill, though they'd been among the demonstrators as much as any man of Sync's.

  "The god loves us," Crit had said, deadpan. "We've got divine protection."

  "Which one, man, which one?" Sync demanded, taking Crit seriously.

  They were in the Outbridge station, alone in Grit's front room, poring over reports strewn on his table—including orders brought by homing hawk from Wizardwall to muster their forces and proceed north posthaste: one to Crit, one to Sync, one meant for Grillo and his specials, and one to Randal that Crit had had no luck delivering.

  "Which god?" Crit repeated, not believing at first that Sync was asking his advice—he'd never seen the 3rd Commando's leader flustered. But the dark, cleft-chinned ranger was deeply shaken by the loss of three of his top men to an enemy he wasn't qualified to fight.

  Sync just stared at him.

  Crit said, "Look, Sync, why don't you move your unit over here? Those we can't accommodate here we'll send out to Hidden Valley for a day or two— we've got to be on our way north day after tomorrow, at the latest. It's just a matter of who we'll leave behind." He tapped the strewn table top in front of him. He wasn't going to try to explain to Sync about the Slaughter Priest's ghost, who'd appeared to Critias and half a dozen others in a dream the night townsfolk started dropping with the plague. The ghost of Abarsis had given Crit a draught to drink, a recipe for making more, and a litany to recite to ward off "witch's work."

  It had been bad enough to have to tell Kama about Abarsis, the Stepsons' founder who was in heaven, so that she'd take Crit seriously and drink the foul potion made from lichen and mold and toadstools and fertile eggs; he wasn't going to give Sync a chance to scoff.

  So they got down to specifics: whom they'd take north and which fighters would have to stay behind in town. Crit was bringing Grillo, as Tempus had requested which meant he'd have to release the widow Maldives from custody and be polite to the double-dealer both he and Sync detested above all others.

  Just then the door burst open and Straton, who'd long ago forgotten how to knock or observe the courtesies of rank where Critias was concerned, stomped in, his face bitten red from the cold outside.

  "God's dung, Crit, you've let the fire go out!" The chill coming from Strat's clothing was palpable as he strode past them both and knelt before a hearth gone nearly as cold as the first frost freezing the ground outside. "Greetings, Sync," came from Strat's bowed head. "Come to seek asylum from the witch?"

  "Strat," Grit's tone was cautionary; he didn't need more trouble than he had. "Any luck getting into the mageguild?"

  "Maybe. We'll see. I got a message as far as the bottom floor. Whether Randal will receive it, or deign to answer, is a matter for the seers, not me." With a poker, he fussed among the banked coals, coaxing them to life. "That's better," he sighed, and turned, still hunkered down. "Let's just go; we've a job to do. One baby wizard isn't going to make or break this mission." Ignoring Sync's presence, Strat spoke confidentially to Crit. "We'd better go while we still can: that girl, Aisha, Niko's friend—she's not feeling well. Neither is the cook. I'd rather die fighting shoulder to shoulder w
ith Bashir than here, if it comes to that. We'll end up killing horses if we wait much longer and you expect to make that rendezvous with the Riddler." The fire caught behind his back, crackled and blazed, backlighting Straton as if a god had touched him. If Straton, most cautious and pragmatic of men, was hot to leave, it was surely time to go. But Crit was enmeshed in a web of administrative details so binding that if he didn't know better, he'd have thought the witch Roxane, herself, had spun it.

  Crit still hadn't figured out a way to keep Kama here, a safer place, plague or no, than fighting Mygdonians and Nisibisi wizards in a guerrilla war beyond Wizardwall. His orders bade him lead his men through Successor-held passes north to harry and divide an army outnumbering them ten to one. He had a job to do and so did Kama—he shouldn't dwell on what grew within her belly so that it distracted him from work and even caused him to think of Kama in ways a fighter, regardless of sex, would have reason to resent.

  So he said to Strat, "What about Jihan? The boy?"

  With a gusting sigh, Strat levered himself to his feet and came to join them, his guarded eyes saying he'd give Crit a moment to reconsider just how much of Tempus's strategy the 3rd Commando ought to know.

  But when Crit still waited for an answer, and Strat, with a scrape of wooden chair on wooden floor, had slid into a seat and poured himself some flat Rankan ale, which had kept its chill because the room was cold, Strat said, "All set. She's taking him up to Bashir's on the Trôs horses."

  Just then Sync, reaching for the earthen pitcher that held the beer, sneezed, spraying Grit's wrist and Straton's face with moisture.

  "Great!" Strat said.

  "Feeling under the weather?" Crit asked, wiping his arm on his breeches.

  "Sorry. Just a chill—the cold air you let in, Straton."

  "Let's hope." Crit suddenly wanted Sync well out of there. He began wrapping up the meeting, creating a timetable for troop movement and leavetaking. He was nearly done when the door to his sleeping chamber opened.