Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  Such rudimentary ablutions went a little way toward clearing his head and he examined the room again, wondering where his clothes might be. He found them in the cupboard, folded neatly, though stained with wine and blood. His fingers told him the gore had likely come from his nose and lips, which felt swollen, horribly tender, and he shuddered afresh at the notion of presenting himself to his father in such condition. Sighing, unsure which part of his body felt worse, he tugged on his soiled clothing and stumbled to the door.

  It opened on a low-roofed corridor that appeared to circuit three sides of the building. A narrow staircase offering a way to the levels below. He descended with both hands on the banister, each step jarring shafts of agony through body and mind, arriving finally at a hall running the length of the building. The sound of voices came from behind a door and he went through into the kitchen, where the smell of food managed simultaneously to inform him that he was hungry and to nauseate him. He hung on the door, blinking, and a large woman, her hair bound up in a turban of dirty white, pointed an accusatory ladle in his direction.

  “Food’s not ready yet.”

  “Bracht?” he succeeded in mumbling.

  “The swordsman? In the yard, playing with his toys.”

  The ladle swung to indicate the farther end of the hall and Calandryll grunted thanks and began to shuffle awkwardly toward the open door there.

  Outside the sun was bright, a fresh onslaught against his aching head, the air sweet with the promise of spring and stables. He halted, noticing that the hand he raised to shade his eyes trembled. He leaned wearily against the door frame, peering across a cobbled yard, horses staring incuriously back at him from the stalls on the far side,-racked barrels standing against one of the high surrounding walls.

  Bracht stood alone at the center, the falchion extended, the curved blade glittering. He was stripped to the waist, sweat lending a sheen to his dark skin. Muscles rippled on his shoulders and back as he executed a series or delicate, almost terpsichorean steps, the sword feinting, thrusting, riposting against some invisible opponent. He spun, sweeping a sideways cut, and saw that he was observed.

  “Calandryll!” He seemed unaware that the falchion shifted to a defensive position even as he called the greeting. “You wake at last.”

  Calandryll nodded and the blade lowered, Bracht grinning as he slid the steel into its sheath.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Awful.” He grinned weakly as the man came toward him, seeing as he approached that pale scars streaked ribs and chest. “My head pounds and my body’s in torment.”

  “You were beaten hard, and I suspect you’ve little head for liquor.” Bracht smiled as he said it, crossing to a water butt, splashing his face and torso. “You’ve nothing broken, though—you’ll mend.”

  He fetched a strip of cloth from beside the butt and toweled himself dry; pulled on his shirt. Calandryll waited, vaguely resenting the absence of any hint of sympathy. Bracht laced his shirt and came to face the younger man, studying him critically.

  “A healer can supply ointments for the bruises and in a week or so you’ll look yourself again.”

  Calandryll felt a rush of alarm. “A week? How do I look now?”

  “As if some drunken sailors used you for a kick ball. You’ll not be kissing any maidens until your mouth heals, though I doubt they’d want you to with a face like that.”

  “Dera help me!” Calandryll moaned.

  “It’s not permanent,” Bracht chuckled.

  “My father will flay me,” muttered Calandryll. “He’ll have me watched! I’ll never be able to leave the palace!”

  “The palace?” Curiosity flickered in the blue eyes. “You spoke of the palace last night. Who are you?”

  “Calandryll den Karynth, son of Bylath,” he answered.

  “The Domm?” Bracht whistled. “That was no boast, then?”

  Calandryll shook his head; and groaned anew as the movement reminded him that it hurt. “No,” he said, “my father is the Domm of Secca, and I am in grave trouble.”

  “I sense a story.” Bracht jabbed a finger in the direction of the hall. “And stories are best told on a full stomach and a mug of ale.”

  “I cannot eat,” Calandryll complained, “and ale … ugh.”

  Bracht ignored him, turning him with a hand upon his shoulder to steer him back into the inn, along the hall to the spacious dining room. “Trust me,” he advised, “I suspect I have more experience of these things than you.”

  Calandryll allowed the man to settle him in a comfortable chair and watched as he crossed to the serving hatch. This place was more salubrious than the tavern of last night, the air redolent of pine from the fresh sawdust sprinkled on the floor, the windows open to admit the faint scent of early honeysuckle from the vines covering the outer facade, and the scattering of men and women already seated at the wooden tables ignored him after their initial examination.

  Bracht returned with two mugs, one surmounted with ale froth, the other containing a dark liquid.

  “Drink.” He indicated the second mug. “It’ll clear your head.”

  Calandryll doubted that, but when he sipped the bitter liquid he was surprised to find it palatable, the drumming inside his skull abating, the nausea that roiled his stomach easing. Bracht downed a healthy measure of ale and wiped the white mustache from his upper lip, lounging back in his chair.

  “So, tell me.”

  It seemed to Calandryll that he owed the swordsman at least that much, and there was something about the man that prompted confidence; he began to speak, sipping the restorative, explaining the events that had brought him to the Sailors Gate.

  Bracht rose when he was done and fetched two more mugs over, soon followed by bowls of stew. Calandryll found that appetite overcame revulsion, and that the stew was good, further settling his stomach.

  “You’ve a problem,” Bracht remarked equably. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.” Calandryll’s reply was mournful.

  “Best think of something. If Namada’s lost to you and you’ve no desire to become a priest, you’d best find some other course.”

  “If I flee Secca—even if I was able to get away—Tobias would likely employ Chaipaku to hunt me down.”

  Bracht’s response lacked sympathy, as if the notion of such danger was something he took for granted: “Life is complicated in Lysse, my friend. In Cuan na’For things are simpler.”

  “Cuan na’For?” Calandryll stared at the man, his own curiosity aroused now, overwhelming his self-pity. “We name your homeland Kern. You belong to the horse-clans?”

  “I did. I was born Asyth. I left my clan because …” Bracht’s blue eyes clouded for a moment; a shadow passing over his features. “I had reasons.”

  He fell silent and Calandryll saw that he did not wish to discuss those reasons. No matter: it was exciting enough to encounter a Kern; the land to the north was largely a mystery, the horseclans’ contacts with Lysse confined to the trading of the animals they herded to market at Gannshold or Forshold. “How came you here?” he asked.

  Bracht shrugged. “I had a fancy to see the world, so I stole some horses and brought them to sale in Forshold. Unfortunately, the owners followed me—I had a choice between continuing on my way or facing thirty angry warriors, so it seemed the wiser course to take my money and wander Lysse. Money doesn’t last long here and I took employment with a merchant, which is how I come to be in Secca.”

  “You’re a mercenary,” Calandryll murmured, intrigued.

  Bracht nodded: “My sword is for hire. Though at the moment there are no takers.”

  “Perhaps …” A thought crossed Calandryll’s mind. “Perhaps my father might find a place for you.”

  “In the Palace Guard?” Bracht grinned, shaking his head. “My thanks, but no—I’ve no taste for ceremony and less for taking orders.”

  “What will you do then?” Calandryll asked.

  “Somethin
g will turn up.” Bracht wiped the last of his stew with a hunk of bread. “If not here, then in Aldarin, perhaps; or Wessyl. Perhaps I shall go to Eyl.”

  “Varent spoke of my visiting the library in Aldarin.” Calandryll glanced up as a woman set fruit before them, removing their emptied plates, memories of Reba’s prophecy stirring. “Perhaps we might journey there together.”

  “Would your father allow that?”

  The blunt reminder dampened Calandryll’s risen spirits and he experienced a sudden return of depression: Aldarin was far from Nadama. But she, he told himself resolvedly, was lost to him, there was nothing to keep him in Secca save the odious future mapped out by his father. If Bracht could wander freely, why not him?

  “I could run away,” he said defiantly.

  “Could you?”

  The Kern’s tone suggested he doubted it and Calandryll stared at his newfound friend: “Why not?”

  “You seem,” Bracht said bluntly, “ill-equipped for adventuring.”

  “I’m healthy. Likely I could find employment.”

  “As what?”

  “As …” Calandryll paused, frowning, “… as a tutor, perhaps. Or an archivist.”

  “I know nothing of such things.” Bracht shrugged carelessly. “I can neither read or write, but it seems to me that a swordsman has a better chance in the marketplace.”

  “You’re unemployed,” Calandryll retorted, irked by the Kern’s dismissal of his skills.

  Bracht took no offense. Instead he shrugged and said, “At the moment. That will change.”

  “I could do something.”

  “No doubt. But even the roads of Lysse are dangerous, and you are no warrior.”

  The response sounded patronizing to Calandryll and he bristled, youthful pride offended. Did no one take him seriously? “Varent would help me, I think,” he said.

  “Is Varent not your father’s guest? Assuming he would be prepared to chance offending the Domm, how can you approach him without first returning to the palace? And if you do that, did you not say your father will confine you there?”

  It was pragmatic enough that Calandryll was brought forcibly back to earth. For a few moments he had seen a possible answer to his unhappiness, but now Bracht’s casually spoken words dismissed that solution. He experienced a flash of irritation.

  “There is Reba’s prophecy. She spoke of travel—a quest.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Bracht, “the spaewife.”

  “You doubt her?”

  “I prefer to put my trust in my blade,” the Kern returned. “It has been my experience that soothsayers unfold paths too complex for my liking.”

  “Perhaps,” said Calandryll, studying Bracht with renewed interest, “you are the one she spoke of.”

  “No!” Bracht raised defensive hands. “I’m a freesword, no tutor of innocents. I seek honest employment, not some vague quest. I’ll see you safely returned to the palace, but there our ways separate.”

  “As you wish,” Calandryll said stiffly, thinking that perhaps the Kern laughed at him; resenting it. “Escort me to the gates and I’ll see you rewarded. Will ten varre suffice?”

  “Amply.”

  It seemed Bracht took no offense. Why should he? Calandryll thought. He was, after all, a mercenary. Doubtless he had acted on a whim when he came to the rescue, or perhaps he had foreseen the opportunity of reward. Most likely that and nothing more; no fated meeting, but the natural opportunism or a hired sword. “Then perhaps we should leave,” he said, disappointed.

  Bracht nodded and they rose, Calandryll gloomy again. If the Kern was not the one foretold by Reba, then perhaps it was Varent the spaewife had meant. He would, he decided, return to the palace and face Bylath’s wrath, but after he would approach the ambassador. The sole certainty he felt was the antipathy that filled him at the idea of entering the priesthood. Limping, he followed Bracht out into the street.

  It was a quarter with which he was unfamiliar and he trailed the Kern in sullen silence as the man strode purposefully—likely thinking of his reward, Calandryll decided—through a labyrinth of side streets and alleys.

  They crossed a corner of the Merchants Quarter and entered an avenue devoted to pleasure houses, the lewd promises of the signs hung above the doorways reminding Calandryll of the doxy in the tavern. He grimaced at the memory, battered mouth pursing in distaste. If Bracht frequented such low establishments, he doubtless considered Calandryll no more than a pampered boy, the Domm’s spoiled son. It was foolish to have thought he might be the comrade foreseen by Reba.

  Then his dark musings were interrupted by a shout and he looked up to see a squad of watchmen approaching. There were five of them, surcoats emblazoned with the emblem of Secca over mail shirts, swords at their sides and curve-billed halberds on their shoulders. The officer shouted again and Calandryll realized the cry was directed at Bracht.

  The mercenary halted. Calandryll stopped alongside. On both sides of the avenue passersby paused to watch and women hung from balconies, idly studying the entertainment.

  The watchmen drew up facing the pair, halberds at the ready now. Their captain stepped forward, his features stem.

  “Lord Calandryll? Praise Dera we’ve found you. There are search parties all over the city.”

  Calandryll felt embarrassed by the attention. He saw folk pointing at him; heard a woman call, “Shall I tend those bruises, sweet?” He felt his cheeks flush.

  “What happened to you?” asked the watchcaptain. “This bravo put those marks on you?”

  He was about to say, “No,” but Bracht spoke first, clearly angered by the groundless accusation.

  “You’ve a quick tongue.”

  “Hold yours,” returned the officer curtly, “I’m talking to Lord Calandryll.”

  “He saved me,” Calandryll interposed, seeing that the Kern’s hand dropped to his swordhilt. “He rescued me from a beating.”

  The watchcaptain studied Bracht insolently. “A mercenary, eh? What are you, a horseherder?”

  “A Kern,” Bracht responded tightly, “Yes.”

  The officer grunted. “Well, the young lord’s safe now. You can leave him with us.”

  “There’s a matter of ten varre,” Bracht said.

  “A mercenary,” the captain repeated, this time lading the word with contempt. “And you want your money, eh?”

  “Yes,” Bracht said.

  “Not enough you get the honor of saving the Domm’s son?” the watchman demanded.

  Bracht’s answer was a shrug.

  “I promised him,” Calandryll said. “He saved my life.”

  “I’ve orders to bring you to the palace,” said the watchman. “Nothing about paying some Kern mercenary.”

  “He can come with us,” Calandryll decided. Then, turning to Bracht, “Come to the palace and I’ll see you paid.”

  “Very well,” the Kern agreed.

  CALANDRYLL had hoped that he might slip unobserved into the palace, at least change his bloodied, winestained clothing and bathe before confronting his father, but it was not to be. The watchcaptain marched his squad resolutely up to the gates and loudly presented his charge to the officer of the Palace Guard waiting there. Calandryll found himself the object of the guards’ attention, discipline holding their faces straight but amusement clear in their eyes. The officer in charge looked him up and down, then stared at Bracht, raised brows framing a question.

  “I owe him money,” Calandryll muttered. “He saved my life.”

  Bracht grinned at the officer, who nodded and said, “If you will follow me, Lord Calandryll?”

  “I need fresh clothes,” Calandryll declared.

  “I have orders to bring you directly to your father,” the officer returned, and spun about, barking orders that brought a squad of five soldiers to attention, an unwelcome guard of honor that gave Calandryll no choice save to be herded into the palace buildings.

  He was brought to a chamber and left to await the Domm, Bracht inspecting th
e room with casual interest, as though the palaces of Lysse were as familiar as her taverns. He turned, offering no obeisance, when Bylath entered, Tobias at his side. The Domm’s face was flushed with anger, growing a deeper red as he studied his younger son and his unexpected companion. Tobias seemed amused.

  Bylath waved a hand, dismissing the guardsmen, and stared at Bracht.

  “Who in Dera’s name is this?”

  His voice was tight with barely suppressed rage. Calandryll felt his head begin to ache again and licked his lips, but before he could speak, the mercenary said, “I am called Bracht. A warrior of the clan Asyth, of Cuan na’For. Your son owes me ten varre.”

  “A Kern mercenary?” Tobias spoke, contemptuous laughter in his voice. “Do you consort with barbarian freeswords now, Calandryll?”

  Bracht stiffened, blue eyes fixed hard on Tobias’s face. Calandryll thought he might return some insult in reply and began to gabble, “He saved my life! They were beating me and he stopped them. He gave me shelter and I promised him ten varre.”

  “You place small value on your life,” Tobias said.

  He was about to add more, but Bylath raised a hand to silence him, glowering at the Kern.

  “This is true?”

  Bracht nodded. Bylath clapped his hands and a door opened to admit a blank-faced servant.

  “Ten varre,” snapped the Domm. “Quickly!”

  The servant departed and the quartet stood in silence, only Bracht seeming at ease, as if undaunted by the prestigious company. Calandryll shifted from foot to foot, nervously probing his loosened tooth. The servant returned with a small pouch; Bylath gestured in Bracht’s direction and the coins changed hands.

  “My thanks,” the Kern said, ducking his head in vague approximation of a bow.

  “Thank you for your service,” Bylath grunted. “You may go.”

  Bracht glanced at Calandryll, smiling. “Farewell, Calandryll.”

  “Farewell,” he replied. “And thank you.”

  The Kern nodded and followed the waiting servant to the door. Calandryll squared his shoulders, awaiting the onslaught of his father’s wrath.