by Angus Wells
“Why?” Calandryll managed to ask.
Varent reached for the decanter before responding, his dark eyes twinkling as he returned his gaze to Calandryll’s gaping face.
“Because you appear to be the only scholar of any character here. Oh, there are your tutors, I know, but they are terrified of the Domm and had I inquired of them, word would doubtless have gotten back to your father. No, I need your help—you are positively the only one.”
He lounged back in his chair, black-clad legs extended, ankles crossed. Calandryll continued to stare at him, intrigued and still more than a little frightened.
“I formed that opinion last night,” Varent went on. “You struck me as a young man of considerable learning, and your comments on Medith and Sarnium impressed me. More—you are familiar with the palace archives.”
“The archives?”
“Indeed. The archives. They contain a map I should dearly like to study.”
“A map?” said Calandryll.
“A map,” nodded Varent. “No doubt ignored in some dusty corner that perhaps only you have explored.”
“Would my father not show it you?” Varent’s attitude was so casual Calandryll found his confidence returning, the shock of the man’s abrupt appearance abating; a degree of suspicion rising.
“I doubt he knows its whereabouts,” came the answer. “And the ambassador of another city—even one now allied with Secca—is unlikely to obtain permission to roam at will through her archives. Who knows what secrets he might find?”
“What map?” Calandryll demanded.
“It is an ancient chart,” smiled Varent. “A thing of no consequence to anyone save historians. Or wizards.”
Calandryll’s suspicion must have showed on his face, because the man chuckled again and said, “I do not ask you to betray your home city, my friend. The map is of no value to Secca, save as an antiquity. And I think neither your father or your brother place much importance on such matters. No, this chart will not be missed, nor damage Secca with its removal. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He raised a hand as Calandryll opened his mouth to speak. “Hear me out and then decide whether or not you wish to aid me. If not—well, I shall have to ask the Domm if I may inspect the archives, and when he refuses, I shall depart empty-handed. And you will remain here, to become a priest.”
It was sufficient bait Calandryll was instantly alert. Varent smiled, nodding.
“Yes, I know what fate awaits you and I offer to help you escape it. Further, I can offer you the protection of Aldarin should you choose to aid me.” He glanced at the discarded book. “I see that you were reading of the Chaipaku. You fear Tobias might employ the Brotherhood against you? I can offer a measure of protection from them, too. Aid me and you’ll be far from their clutches. Now, will you hear me out?”
Calandryll nodded, eager now: surely Varent must be the one Reba had foretold.
“Good.” The ambassador nodded, leaning forward with elbows on knees, the goblet cupped between his hands. The bantering tone left his voice and his eyes fixed with a hypnotic intensity on Calandryll’s face. “As a scholar you are doubtless familiar with the gospels. Have you read Rassen? Excellent—you will understand all the better. As that somewhat dull scribe puts it, the gods of our world—Dera, Burash, Brann, and the rest—are relative newcomers. Before them were the brother gods, Tharn and Balatur, and before them, the first of all the gods—Yl and Kyta.
“As Rassen has it, Tharn and Balatur were the children of Kyta and Yl—if gods have children, which I rather doubt; but no matter, my personal beliefs are not important now—and were worshipped when the world was young. As seems to be the way with both gods and men, they grew vain in their supremacy, and rivalry mounted between them.” He shrugged, smiling, as if these notions amused him. “But you know all this; you know that Tharn envied his brother god and fell upon him, that warring bringing chaos to all creation, leading the First Gods to intervene when Tharn proved victorious, condemning both victor and vanquished to oblivion.”
He paused, studying Calandryll as if expecting an answer of some kind. Calandryll nodded: all this was common knowledge to any scholar or historian.
“Well,” said Varent, serious again, “there is a warlock—his name is Azumandias—who seeks to raise the Mad God Tharn.”
He paused, as if the very thought was terrifying, his eves burning darkly as he stared at the dumbstruck youth, the enormity of the idea harshening his aquiline features. When he spoke again his voice was ominously low.
“Think of it, Calandryll—the Mad God raised! We speak of the world’s ending—insanity combined with godly power! Even insane, Tharn is mightier than any of the new gods, though I doubt his successors would accept their inevitable relegation. More likely, they would oppose Tharn. And such a conflict would undoubtedly destroy the world.
“Azumandias himself is mad, of course—he thinks to control the god with his gramaryes, but he will succeed only in unleashing cataclysm. Unless he is stopped.”
He broke off, shaking his head. Calandryll sat bemused, the concept so vast, so awesome he was robbed of speech. He waited for Varent to continue, wondering what part he had to play.
‘There is, however, hope,” the ambassador continued. “Azumandias has secured those spells necessary to raise the Mad God, but not the means of locating his resting place.
“I, though, know how they may be found.
“It was Azumandias taught me the magical art: I was a willing pupil until he sought to suborn me to his purpose, but when I discovered the full extent of his ambition I knew that I must oppose him. I had learned sufficient of his design that I was able to commence my own researches, and thus I discovered the means by which he may be thwarted.”
“The chart?” whispered Calandryll.
“No, although it is vital to our purpose,” Varent said; Calandryll noticed the plural. “It is not so easy—the chart, studied in conjunction with my own documents, reveals the key to Azumandias’s defeat. When Yl and Kyta banished their children, they hid them well, binding them with spells. Azumandias has discovered the spells, but not the tombs. There is a book—the Arcanum—that reveals the locations. It is hidden in Tezin-dar.”
“Tezin-dar?” Calandryll could only gape.
“Indeed; in Tezin-dar,” said Varent.
“But Tezin-dar is a fable,” Calandryll objected. “The Arcanum is a fable. They are no more than legends. Medith denies their existence; even Rassen doubts their reality.”
“It is real,” Varent said firmly. “Tezin-dar lies somewhere in Gessyth, deep in the swamplands. Perhaps the least accessible place in the world, but it does exist.”
“And the chart shows where,” Calandryll said.
Varent nodded solemnly and raised his goblet in a toast. “You are quick: I like that. That is one reason I approached you—you have the wit to comprehend.”
“But surely, if all this is true, you need only inform my father,” Calandryll suggested. “He could not deny you access, knowing this.”
“Your father is a man of this world,” Varent returned. “Do you think he would believe me? Or would he suspect some deep plot on the part of Aldarin? Some maneuver to advantage my city at cost to Secca?”
It was true; Calandryll nodded.
“Besides,” Varent added, “even if the Domm did believe me—granted me access to the archives—he would hardly leave the rest to me. He is a warrior, a man of action. His response would be to send an expeditionary force to Gessyth, probably led by your brother. And that would alert Azumandias, whose own response would certainly be to employ magic against us. For the same reason, I dare not reveal what I have learned to any in Aldarin. Azumandias has occult spies abroad, and should he suspect I know so much, I should be dead within the hour. No, my friend, force of arms is not the answer here.”
“What then?” asked Calandryll, his voice hushed.
“The Arcanum must be destroyed,” said Varent. “Before Azumandias gains its knowledge,
it must be destroyed. But cunning is required. Quick minds and scholarly knowledge will prevail where armies may not. This is a task for one or two, no more. The book must be found and destroyed before Azumandias learns of it.
“Now—do you aid me? Or leave the field to Azumandias?”
CALANDRYLL stared at Varent, his thoughts in turmoil. He did not doubt that the ambassador spoke the truth, but that truth was of terrifying magnitude. A crazed magician bent on raising the Mad God? Surely that must mean cataclysm, the destruction of the world. And Varent sought his help. His alone….
You must cross the water to find what you seek, though men say it does not exist … There is a teacher … You will travel far and see things no southern man has seen … Reba’s words came back to him…. You will seek that which cannot be had and find disappointment …
That much was already true: Nadama was lost to him, and only disappointment lay ahead in Secca. Surely Varent was the teacher. Surely this was the quest the spaewife had described. He nodded solemnly.
“What would you have me do?”
“I knew you were the man!” Varent beamed. “I want you to find me the chart.”
Disappointment: was that all?
“I am confined to my chambers,” he replied, that knowledge dampening his enthusiasm.
“I’ll speak on your behalf—seek to mollify your father. After all, I am an honored guest. Then, when you’re released, find the map and bring it to me.”
“How shall I recognize it?” Calandryll asked.
“It was drawn in the time of Thomus, by Orwen; it is marked with both the seal of the Domm and the sign of the mapmaker. The Domm’s seal you surely know. Orwen’s sign looks thus …”
Varent raised a hand, forefinger extended, and traced a shape in the air between them. Silvery brilliance, like moonlight spun in a web, sparked from his fingertip, inscribing a design that hung, glowing, before Calandryll’s face.
“You will remember it?” asked Varent, and when Calandryll nodded, closed his fist, the glittering tracery extinguishing.
“Then what?” asked Calandryll.
Surely he had a larger part to play?
“Then,” said Varent, rekindling his optimism, “I’ll return favor for favor, as I promised. Come to my chambers the day I leave and I’ll take you with me.”
“To Aldarin?”
Only that far?
“I’d ask more of you.” Varent’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, full of promises. “I cannot depart Aldarin, for fear Azumandias would discover my absence and set magical hounds on my trail. That would be disastrous. No, my friend, what I ask of you is a great thing, an awesome duty. You are familiar with the Old Tongue—you are one of the few men able to recognize the Arcanum. I want you to go to Tezin-dar.”
You will travel far… see things no southern man has seen.
It was the prophecy! It had to be!
“Yes!” he said eagerly.
“There will be danger,” Varent warned.
Calandryll shrugged, dismissing such concern. Then thought of the spaewife’s words again…. One will come after, also to be trusted. …
“Might I not hire a bodyguard?” he wondered.
“An excellent idea,” agreed Varent. “You know of one? A trustworthy man?”
Bracht had saved him, and the Kern was unemployed.
“There is a man called Bracht,” he said, “a Kern free-sword.”
“Your rescuer?” Varent’s lips pursed in thought; he nodded. “Kerns are dependable. Where is he to be found?”
Calandryll frowned. What was the inn called? “He has a room in a house on the edge of the Merchants Quarter. At the sigh of the Wayfarer, I think.”
“I shall make inquiries,” promised Varent, and eyed Calandryll warningly: “But he can know nothing of our true purpose, lest he alert Azumandias. Let him think you flee Secca on some erudite mission. He will accept that?”
“I think so,” said Calandryll.
“Good, I shall seek him out,” Varent murmured. “And now, perhaps I should leave you, lest someone discover us together. Remember: secrecy is our best defense against Azumandias’s glamours.”
He rose, draping his dark cloak about his shoulders, then extended his hand, taking Calandryll’s.
“Praise Dera I met you, Calandryll. Together well defeat Azumandias.”
Calandryll returned his grip, smiling. It was gratifying to be treated as a man. “Yes,” he said firmly.
Varent nodded and turned to the window. Calandryll stepped close as he went onto the balcony. The wind rustled the night-black folds of the cape and the man shimmered, and was gone, leaving behind that faint odor of almonds.
Calandryll stood for long moments staring at the empty balcony, then closed the window, smiling. The first step was taken, the quest begun. He would escape the priesthood. He would show his father, show Tobias, that he was no boy, but a man now, with his own destiny to follow. He would return a hero. And what would Nadama think of him then?
He was too excited to contemplate sleep and flung himself into a chair, reaching for the fallen book, turning urgently to those pages in which Medith discussed the gods:
In the beginning, before this world was formed, there were the First Gods, and they were Yl and Kyta, the All-Powerful. They dwelt within the Void, formless until it pleased them to assume shape and substance, becoming male and female. It also pleased them to shape this world, and the sun and the moon, the stars and all things that lie in the heavens and the waters and on the earth. Thus was the Void filled and no longer an empty place.
Because they had taken male and female form Yl and Kyta joined, and from their union came children, lesser than their parents, yet themselves gods, and they walked upon the world.
These children of the First Gods were the brothers. Tharn and Balatur, and their form was perfect.
The Children of the First Gods grew and felt the power they possessed, asking of their progenitors that they be given worshippers, that their power ana their godhood be known. So it was that Yl and Kyta took earth and water and from that stuff shaped humankind to please their children, as fond parents seek to grant their offspring playthings, for such are men to the gods. And in this way were men created and set within the world, which was a fecund place were none wanted for food or drink or shelter, knowing only the ways of paradise, and they worshipped the brother gods in the ways demanded by Tharn and Balatur.
But in time the Children of the First Gods waxed prideful and sought to create beings of their own making, but that was a power possessed of Yl and Kyta jealously and none others, and the creatures thus shaped were strange and malformed, and hideous to the eyes of men.
Now the First Gods saw that the beings of their children’s shaping could not live with men and banished them to the lonely places of the world that they might offer no harm to men, nor offend with their ugliness and their unhuman ways. And this Balatur accepted, seeing that his parents were wise, but Tharn was angered and determined that he would do as he wished, turning his face from the guidance of his parents and seeking to create as had the First Gods, which is their right alone.
But Yl and Kyta took such power from him and from Balatur that they could no longer fashion the changeling things and Tharn’s anger waxed until it became a madness and he sought to persuade his brother to his cause, but Balatur would have no truck, and then did Tharn become lost in his madness and fell upon his brother in terrible fury. And Balatur must then defend himself, or fall before his brother and see all the folk of the world ground down beneath the heel of Tharn. In that time were mountains destroyed and chasms cleft where none had been before, and seas boiled dry, while others filled the land.
Then did Yl and Kyta once more intervene, coming between their children that they should not utterly destroy the world and all the creatures therein, seeking to pledge peace between them. But Tharn was gone into madness and would not listen to the words of the First Gods, and a great sadness fell upon Yl and Kyta, for
they perceived that their child was lost to them. Yet they could not find it in their hearts to slay their child and they feared that did they bind the one brother, then might the other take his place, for they saw that their children held overmuch power, and that is a thing that corrupts when one alone holds all.
They debated long, and with much pain agreed a course whereby they set upon the brother gods a mighty glamour that sent them down into sleep, and they were entombed in hidden places and their resting places set about with spells that they should not again wake but languish in the oblivion of limbo. And then the world knew peace again, and men multiplied and wandered the ways of the world, but godless.
Then did Yl and Kyta see that men need gods, and from their dreaming shaped those newcome deities who are the Lesser Gods. And those gods are Dera, whose fruitful bounty blesses Lysse; and Horul, who is both horse and man and revered by the folk of the Jesseryn Plain; and Burash, the Lord of the Waters, who is worshiped in Kandahar; Ahrd, the Holy Tree, which the people of Kern hold in awe; and the Iron God, Brann, whose blood is said to fill the mountains of Eyl with precious iron.
Then did Yl and Kyta, mourning, go into the Forbidden Lands, where only gods may dwell. But ere they left for that place they caused to be written down a memorial to their lost children, recording those hidden places where they lay, and that tome they set in a secret place, guarded, and it is the book named the Arcanum.
Calandryll yawned, the close-scribed words blurring, and set the book aside. He had never thought much on such matters, and deemed the Arcanum a legend, like the lost city of Tezin-dar: but now Varent’s words lent fresh light to the ancient scriptures and he shuddered at the thought that Azumandias might find the book and raise the Mad God. It was a terrifying notion.
A second yawn stretched his jaws wide and he rose, stretching, feeling the dull ache of his healing ribs, and glanced at the window. Outside, the night was black, the moon no longer visible. He yawned again, exhaustion overcoming excitement, and tugged off his clothes, clambering gratefully beneath the sheets, where, within moments, he was sleeping soundly.
