Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  It was as though she could see the disappointment in his eyes, for she added, “What I see of her future is clouded by your desire for her. Were you to bring her here …”

  “She would not come,” he said quickly.

  “Then I cannot say,” Reba murmured.

  He accepted that. “Should I take this path,” he wondered, “do I take it in duty to my father, as ambassador of the Domm? Or as my own man?”

  “As a seeker,” she returned, without hesitation. “Outlawed from Secca.”

  “Banished?”

  Such thought had crossed his mind; it was inevitable should he reject his father’s wishes. That or a life imprisoned behind the walls of Dera’s temple, denied the books he loved, his life given over to religious observance, the rites of worship, a celibate prisoner in a luxurious cage. But to hear it said out loud, so firm, without hint of doubt or hesitation, that made it real. Real and frightening.

  “Yes,” Reba said.

  “But with true friends.”

  “Yes,” she said again. “Truer friends than any you have known. They will set you on the path, if you choose it.”

  “The alternatives remain unpalatable,” he said, endeavoring to affect a nonchalance he did not feel.

  “But perhaps more … comfortable. Certainly less dangerous.”

  He snorted his dismissal.

  “As a priest? I have considered that and I reject it. Perhaps I should take that path you suggested first, and flee. Even though it makes my life forfeit.”

  But that would be without Nadama. She would never leave Secca: he knew he spoke from anger, or resentment; he was not sure which.

  “Does it not depend on Nadama?” asked the spaewife.

  Calandryll sighed agreement. “Yes, it does.”

  “Should she accept your proposal, her family would protect you. Your father would risk civil war did he seek to annul the marriage.”

  “I would not plunge Secca into war,” he said forlornly.

  “It seems your choices narrow,” Reba said, “If all depends on Nadama.”

  “I love her,” he returned, as if that answered the question he heard in her voice. “And if she’d have me, I’d gladly renounce all family claims. Perhaps my father would accept that.”

  “Then approach her,” Reba advised. “I can do no more than tell you what I see. Should she accept you, then a new path opens.”

  Calandryll grunted thoughtful agreement. Now the shock of her prediction had passed he thought more clearly, that part of him that needed to analyze, to probe and find answers, reasons, prompted him to question her further.

  “You spoke of branching paths—and I agree the future must be thus—but it seems you saw only one for me. Does that mean I am predestined to take it?”

  “No.” Reba shook her head. “It is only the most probable. What you told me, what I learned of you, of what you want—all those things combine to illuminate the most likely. The ultimate choice remains yours.”

  “This friend who will—may,” he corrected himself, “set me on this path, does he not figure? Will he not influence what I do?”

  “He—or she—perhaps,” Reba allowed. “But you may reject him. Or her.”

  “A woman?” Calandryll grew intrigued, almost despite himself. “Do you say I shall forget Nadama? Meet another woman?”

  Now Reba sighed. “Perhaps. I saw two friends in that future that revealed itself. One was a man; of that there is no doubt. The other was not clear—man or woman, I cannot say.”

  “Friends, a dangerous quest for some unknown prize,” he murmured, “travel to distant lands, banishment. These are romantic notions, but I had hoped for a clearer scrying.”

  “Were you a more common man you might have had that,” she replied, “but you are not. You are the son of the Domm, and that shapes your future. I can offer you no better, Calandryll.”

  “Can you offer me no more?” he demanded. “I have varre enough.”

  Reba made a dismissive gesture and his embarrassment returned.

  “I am sorry. I intended no offense.”

  “It does not matter.” She smiled afresh. “And your coins would make no difference. I saw what I saw and I cannot see more. The paths branch before you, and which one you take only you can decide. I can offer only that illumination revealed to me.”

  “So be it,” he agreed. “But these friends—how shall I recognize them?”

  “You will know them when you meet them,” she said confidently.

  “And Burash?” he asked. “Should I sacrifice to the Sea God?”

  “It cannot hurt,” she said. “Nor prayers to Dera. Now, forgive me, but I am wearied. I can tell you no more, and you had best regain the palace before you are missed.”

  “Yes.” He accepted the dismissal. “Thank you, Reba.”

  She nodded in a way that suggested she was not sure such gratitude was warranted.

  “May all the gods favor you,” she called as he left. “I will pray to Dera that your choice is the right one.”

  He moved back along the corridor, eyes narrowing as he stepped into the street and bright sunlight struck him. Glancing up, he saw the sun advanced across the sky, estimating that he had spent perhaps one hour with the spae-wife. That left him time: his father was in conference with the ambassador of Aldarin, concerning the activities of the Kand pirates, which the coastal cities anticipated would increase with the cessation of the winter storms, and those debates would last throughout the day, probably longer. Tobias would be in attendance, and it was unlikely his absence would be noticed by anyone in a position to reprimand him. He had, he knew, a reputation for vagueness—unreliability, according to his father; dreamy as a love-struck girl, according to his brother—and it was not unusual for him to disappear on some erudite mission, forgetful of appointments, ignorant of time’s passage until hunger recalled him to the everyday world. He would be expected to attend the banquet that night, but until then he was free to spend the day as he chose.

  He chose to think, and for that purpose set out for the city wall, knowing that there he might find solitude.

  THE alley that flanked Reba’s house continued on the opposite side of the street, cutting across the Seers Gate in the direction of the harbor, and he followed it, grinning at the sheer imagination of the graffiti decorating the buildings. He saw few people until the alley emerged into a wider avenue, one of the larger thoroughfares circling the city like the radial strands of a spider’s web, linked by the smaller streets, the Domm’s palace at the center. The roadway marked the boundary of the Seers Gate and the commencement of the Merchants Quarter. The buildings were larger here, bright-striped awnings extending over wide pavements busy with pedestrians, the road active with carriages and chariots, the warm air loud, fragrant with the odors of spices, leather, dyes, cloths, metal; the myriad goods offered for sale. Calandryll hurried across the avenue, dodging traffic, and made his way between two emporiums to the broad military road running beneath the wall, designed to allow swift movement of troops to any part of the perimeter in the event of siege.

  Civilian vehicles were scarce on the road and he crossed it easily. On the far side the wall bulked toward the sky, barracks and stables and armories built into the foot, the wall itself wide as a sizable house to defeat siege engines or sappers. Soldiers lounged in the sun outside the barracks, but none offered Calandryll more than a cursory glance as he crossed the road and commenced the ascent to the ramparts.

  The steps at this point were narrow and steep, angling vertiginously between a stable and a storehouse, ending beside one of the small blockhouses that guarded each stairway. Five legionaries looked up from a game of dice as Calandryll came panting onto the wall, grinning as he paused to regain his breath. The officer took in his cloak and clothes and nodded in greeting.

  “A fine day for a stroll along the wall,”

  He appeared to consider Calandryll some minor aristocrat.

  “Yes.” Calandryll nodded, thinking
that Tobias would have been instantly recognized. Before the officer had chance to mark any resemblance, he walked on.

  The breeze was stronger up here, coming off the sea, tangy with the scent of ozone, and he gathered his cloak about him as he crossed to the farther perimeter and peered down.

  The Eastern Sea was a metallic grey, flecked with white where waves broke, spray bursting across the long mole that protected the harbor. Ships rocked there, mostly caravels that plied the coastal trade northward to Hyme and Forshold, or south and west to Aldarin, then on to Wessyl and Eryn, but also three-masters awaiting the shifting of the wind that would carry them across the Narrow Sea to Eyl and Kandahar, and fishing boats, dwarfed by their larger companions. Mangonels stood ominous at the farthest extent of the mole and to either side of the harbor itself, and beside the Sailors Gate a sizable blockhouse warded that entry to the city. There had been no fighting since Calandryll’s childhood, the cities of Lysse maintaining a somewhat precarious peace since the last siege, when Bylath had resisted Aldarin, and the Kand pirates preferred to attack merchantmen crossing the Narrow Sea to storming a fortified metropolis, but the Domm allowed no relaxation of his defenses and so both mangonels and blockhouse were fully manned.

  Calanaryll’s gaze wandered from the activity of the harbor to the more ponderous movement of the sea, its grey surface vaguely menacing in the light of Reba’s prediction. There was always some measure of danger where that element was concerned; indeed, although Secca adhered to the worship of Dera, there were temples dedicated to Burash in the Sailors Gate, and few mariners set sail without making some offering to the god of the waters. Burash was an unpredictable god, whimsical in his moods and given to violent rages. If he was to make the journey Reba had forecast, he would sacrifice to Burash.

  But if he chose that path it would be without Nadama: she would never, he was certain, agree to leave the city. If she accepted his suit he must remain in Secca, and if he did that it must be at risk of his brother’s enmity, his father’s wrath. But married to Nadama he would, at least, have the support of the powerful den Ecvin family to protect him. But then Tobias might well employ the Chaipaku, and he was no great swordsman—the notion of finding himself hunted by assassins was alarming.

  He pushed away from the parapet and began to walk along the wall, unaware of the wind that ruffled his long hair, his head down, deep in thought. Reba had spoken of a quest, yet told him he could choose to ignore it. Were he to take that path it must, it seemed, mean banishment and the loss of Nadama. Were he to ignore it, it must mean the acceptance of the fate outlined by his father, a life of tedious religious duty.

  Unless Nadama should accept him: it seemed his fate must rest with her. Until he knew for sure whether or not he had her, he could not decide: he would approach her and demand she make her choice. He felt better for that, his stride quickening, cloak billowing behind as he raised his head and smiled.

  Then faltered as it occurred to him that he was afraid. That it seemed, whatever answer he received, he must lose something. What was it Reba had said? You will seek that which cannot be had and find disappointment. But you will gain much; more than you lose.

  His smile faded and he looked once more toward the sea. The waves seemed to mock him and he turned from them, looking inward across the city.

  That view offered no better answers. He saw the bustle of a prosperous metropolis, the streets angling toward the great white edifice of the Domm’s palace, ringed by a sward of green, the inner courts hidden behind high walls. The seat of government, to which all Secca looked for guidance; the seat of power.

  He had no wish for power, nor any desire to govern. He was happy to leave all that to Tobias, yet neither his father or his brother would concede the same freedom to him. He was, he knew, a disappointment to his father; to his brother… he was not sure what he was. A potential threat, certainly, for Tobias was hungry for the title of Domm, and any sibling could become a rival. In the matter of Nadama, too, there was rivalry: both sought her favor, but so far she refused to choose between them.

  He mouthed a curse heard in the palace stables, teeth clenching in frustration. Whichever way his mind turned his thoughts came back to Reba’s enigmatic prophecy. What did it mean? How did it help him?

  It was impossible to decide until he knew Nadama’s mind. He nodded, agreeing with himself, and his pace quickened again, moving toward the inevitable watershed. Nadama would attend tonight’s banquet: he would ask her then.

  CALANDRYLL was too deep in thought to conceal his return to the palace, forgetting that he had left by the Ostlers Gate and consequently approaching the great ceremonial arch that granted entry to the main courtyard. It was only the clatter of halberds against shields as the guards stationed there offered him formal salute that reminded him of his mistake, and by then it was too late to rectify the error. Nor was he sure that he wished to, despite the rush of apprehension that filled him as he thought of his father’s displeasure should the Domm learn his younger son had gone wandering the poorer quarters alone. He waved a casual response and continued on across the yard, oblivious of the amused looks the guards exchanged. Like all the palace folk they were accustomed to the vagaries of the younger heir and had long given up any expectations of disciplined or dignified behavior where he was concerned. Calandryll’s a dreamer, they said among themselves, not like Tobias. It’s lucky he was the second born, for he’d make a poor Domm.

  Calandryll himself shared that opinion without resentment, though now, for all his abstracted air, he felt positive. He had thought the matter through and arrived at what he believed was the only logical conclusion. What worried him was the outcome: it seemed he must lose either way.

  He nodded absently as more guards saluted, passing through the wide copper-clad doors into the first of the palace’s receiving rooms, crossing that to a corridor busy with servants preparing the halls for the forthcoming banquet. They bowed as he passed, not so deeply as they might for Tobias or his father, but he scarcely noticed that and would not have cared had he been aware of the lack of respect. They liked him well enough and that was sufficient.

  He left the bustle behind as he climbed the stairs to his private quarters, pleased to have regained the palace without, so far as he knew, his father learning of his absence.

  The door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and shed his cloak, tossing his swordbelt onto a convenient chair. The familiarity of the room was comforting, reassuring, the books and scrolls and parchments that covered one wall like old friends, supportive of his decision. Though that, he thought, was at present only a decision to make a decision and it occurred to him that he should look his best if he was to approach Nadama. He went through the outer chamber to his bedroom. The windows had been opened and his bed made, the books littering the table tidied; the room was pleasantly warm, airy, sunlight tinting the white walls with gold, glinting off the surface of the tall cheval glass standing beside his wardrobes. He placed himself before the mirror and studied his image critically.

  A tall youth—no, he decided, a young man—looked back, slim and reasonably muscular. His hair was untidy, shining gold in the sunlight and in need of cutting, framing a long face in which the large brown eyes were the most dominant feature. He was not, he thought, unhandsome. Perhaps not so obviously good-looking as Tobias, and certainly less commanding, but not ugly. His nose might be broader and his jaw perhaps a fraction more square, his ears smaller, but his mouth was wide enough and his teeth even. He grinned at himself, squaring shoulders he knew had a tendency to slump, deciding that he was not, all things considered, unattractive. He would summon a barber and have his hair dressed. Take a bath. And choose clothes for the evening.

  Then … His doubts returned and he saw his grin fade. If he were Nadama, which brother would he choose? He turned from the mirror, going to the wide windows opening onto the balcony.

  Below was a walled garden, vines climbing the stonework, bushes offering the first gr
een of spring, flowers thrusting tentative stalks up through the dark earth, a small fountain at the center. That, he remembered, had been a favorite place of his mother’s: he could just recall her playing with him there, before she died, a victim of the plague, perhaps the same outbreak that had scarred Reba.

  How would she have advised him?

  He had not known her long enough to hazard a guess; he had been a child when she died and all he could remember was a feeling of warmth, of protective love, arms to which he ran when Bylath grew angry. There were portraits about the palace, and sculptures, but those were formal representations, depicting a dignified woman, her thick hair encircled by the Domme’s coronet. They told him what she had looked like, not how she thought; they were not the mother he dimly remembered.

  It seemed that, for all his swift temper, Bylath had been different then; softer, more approachable. Her death had struck him hard and he had withdrawn, become austere, unyielding, as though he feared to commit to fondness again, seeing in his sons the potential for pain that walks hand in hand with love. Had that withdrawal not taken place, Calandryll thought his life, his outlook, might well be different. Tobias, two years older, had accepted it, finding in military training, the anticipation of power, the consolation denied by their father. Calandryll, on the other hand, had been hurt, withdrawing in turn from his father, increasing the emotional distance between them, seeking solace in those things his mother had loved, chief among them books, learning, the acquisition of knowledge beyond those matters immediate to the welfare of Secca. That love had increased with the passing years, prompting Bylath to despair of ever making a warrior of his son.

  In some ways it worked to Calandryll’s benefit. It was not unknown for a Domm to exile younger sons in Gannshold or Forshold, the two great citadels that guarded the landward approaches to Lysse, fearing they might rise against their eider brothers, rivals for the title. Equally, it was not unknown for the elder brother to employ assassins to dispose of the potential contender: Calandryll had heard rumors that the current Domm of Wessyl had used the mysterious Chaipaku to rid him of two siblings, while it was common knowledge that the Domm of Hyme had hired the Brotherhood of Assassins to eliminate four members of his family. Such threat did not exist in his case, he thought: Bylath clearly considered him too poor a warrior to send him north and Tobias showed only contempt for his bookish brother.