by Angus Wells
Their rooms were adjacent and as they reached them Calandryll frowned, turning to Bracht.
“Would you have reneged?” he asked.
Bracht’s face was shadowed, rendering his expression unreadable. “I’d not anticipated demons,” he murmured, “but nor had I expected to find the son of Secca’s Domm placed in my charge.”
“What difference does that make?” wondered Calandryll.
“You don’t see?” He thought Bracht grinned then. “Had I refused, what do you think Varent would do? He need only send word to your father that I aided your escape and I’m outlawed in Secca. He’s the ambassador of Aldarin, so I’d likely find myself outlawed there, too. Two cities placing a price on my head? Those are heavy odds; powerful enemies. This way at least I have an ally in Aldarin.” Now Calandryll was sure he grinned. “And five thousand varre, besides.”
“Is the money so important?” Calandryll sought to probe the darkness that hid the Kern’s face. “Does the quest not excite you?”
“The money sweetens it,” Bracht said. Then added as if in explanation, “I’ve no great liking for Varent.”
Calandryll sighed: it had not occurred to him that the two comrades of Reba’s prophecy would be other than friends, but he heard in the Kern’s tone an implacable coldness. It appeared that Bracht had weighed Varent and found him wanting. At least, he thought, the freesword accepted him, and was surprised to find himself thankful for that: they had little enough in common, but he realized that he wanted the Kern’s friendship. He yawned, unable to conceal his weariness.
“Sleep,” Bracht advised, amiably enough.
Calandryll nodded sleepily and opened his door, half expecting to discover something monstrous inside the chamber. He saw only a plain room, moonlight falling across a mightily tempting bed. He stepped inside, aware that Bracht waited at the door, hand on the falchion’s hilt: he smiled his thanks.
Bracht nodded and said, “We’d best find you a blade tomorrow.”
“Yes.” He watched as the mercenary turned to his own chamber, and closed the door.
The very simplicity of the room helped dispel his apprehension. It was a place to rest, not a venue for magic, and Varent had said Azumandias was likely weakened by the conjuration; and he trusted Varent: there would be no further assault. He crossed the slightly creaking boards and dropped wearily to the bed, bending to unlace his boots and tug them off. A small wardrobe provided space for his clothes and a cache for the map, and he climbed beneath cool sheets, seeing the full moon beaming enigmatically from a sky of darkest blue velvet pocked with stars. That same moon had lit the barn when Azumandias’s demons attacked …
A sudden thought widened his sleep-heavy eyes: when Varent had materialized on his balcony the ambassador had explained that such magic enabled him to transport himself only to a known location. Therefore Azumandias must be familiar with the caravanserai.
He frowned, the thought denying him the sleep his body craved. To do that, Azumandias must have visited the place … might therefore have visited every potential stop along the way … might be able to produce demons anywhere. For a moment he felt the chilly grip of dread. Then he smiled, remembering that Varent had foreseen that possibility and announced his intention of altering their route. He turned his face from the moonlight, drawing the comforting sheet up to his chin, alarm fading as welcome sleep crept over him. Until a further doubt crept in: how could Azumandias have known he would be in the barn?
And why send demons against him?
Why not attack Varent?
Without the ambassador, the whole quest must surely falter. He and Bracht were merely agents, Varent the mastermind, so why direct the attack against the lesser players?
The thoughts disturbed him, rendering sleep, for all he craved its peace, elusive, the lack of answers setting him to turning restlessly, his mind refusing to let go the problem. Varent’s magic protected him, he decided at last: that must explain it. Or part of it: he was still wondering how the wizard could have known where he would be as exhaustion overcame him and at last he drifted into welcome slumber.
SUNLIGHT had replaced the moonglow when he woke, a little after dawn to judge by the noise that rose from the courtyard and the height of the sun in the cloudflecked blue sky. He thrust back the sheets and climbed from the bed, washing and dressing swiftly. The map lay where he had left it in the wardrobe. He stared at it for a moment, then settled it against his skin, beneath his shirt: It seemed the safest hiding place for now. Satisfied, he hurried to the common room with the questions that had plagued him rising afresh in his mind.
The spacious room was mostly empty, Varent beaming a welcome from a table set against one wall where he sat alone, beckoning. Calandryll was pleased Bracht was not there, or any of the ambassador’s men: he felt a need to discuss his doubts in some measure of privacy.
“Your ordeal seems to have left no lasting marks,” Varent greeted him. “Break your fast with me—this fruit is truly delicious.”
He pushed a bowl of apples across the table and called for the landlord to bring another mug. Calandryll helped himself to the fruit, and the fresh-baked bread, as Varent filled the mug with steaming tea.
“Where’s Bracht?” he asked.
“Tending his horse,” said Varent cheerily, “what they say about Kerns is true, you know—they place the comfort of their animals above their own.”
He sliced an apple with a slender dagger; added a sliver of yellow cheese. He appeared completely at ease, as if he had forgotten the events of the previous night. Calandryll said, “I was thinking about the demons.”
“I’m not surprised,” Varent murmured smoothly, “but as I told you, I believe we may safely dismiss such threat for a while.”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head. “I was thinking about how they came to be there.”
“Indeed?” Varent raised a napkin to his lips. “By courtesy of Azumandias, I assume.”
Calandryll frowned. Varent was the picture of relaxed urbanity, his manner suggesting that he found the subject more than a little tedious.
“How could he know where I was?” he insisted.
“He is a powerful wizard,” Varent said, helping himself to bread.
Calandryll refused to let it go: “You suggested he had guessed our whereabouts.”
“You’ve an inquiring mind, Calandryll; I like that!” Varent nodded, smiling. “You are wondering how he could have known we should halt here? Apply that scholarly logic—this is the first way station on the route from Secca to Aldarin; Azumandias has traveled extensively in his search for Orwen’s charts; no doubt he anticipated I should make this my first halt.”
“How could he know when you would arrive?” Calandryll demanded.
“A spy.” Varent shrugged casually. “He might well employ some human agent in Secca who released a pigeon to alert him; or, perhaps, an occult agent. Either way, he needed only use logic to deduce that my party would halt here.”
Calandryll’s frown deepened; Varent’s smile grew broader.
“You wonder why he did not attack me? How he knew of your presence? Again, the answers lie within the realm of logic—the creatures you described are unpredictable and might have destroyed the chart and me together. Azumandias would assume I hold it, which is why it is best you keep it; also, he cannot be certain how strong my own powers have become. As for your presence, he would have learned of that from his spy.”
“Then he might alert my father to your part in my escape.”
Calandryll paled at the notion of Bylath sending a squadron of legion cavalry to bring him back: the prospect was somehow worse than the thought of facing monsters. Varent’s laughter reassured him.
“No,” said the ambassador, “had he chosen that ploy, we should have been halted before leaving Secca. Fa wager that Azumandias suspects I have the chart and wanted me to bring it out of Secca. But he acted hastily! He’s shown his hand now and I can guard against further assaults.”
Calandryll nodded: the explanation seemed rational enough; he wanted to believe Varent, but one doubt lingered still.
“When you came to me in my chambers,” he said carefully, “you told me it was necessary to know the place.”
“Indeed,” Varent responded equably, “Blind transportation is horribly dangerous. One might materialize immured in a wall; or fused with a chair, say. Even magic is governed by certain physical laws, one of which is that two objects may not occupy the same space without disastrous results.”
“Then Azumandias must have familiarized himself with the barn.”
Varent nodded.
“How could he know I would be there?”
For an instant the dark man’s equanimity faltered. His eyes hooded and he raised his napkin again, hiding his mouth.
“You do have an inquiring mind,” he said at last. “How did Azumandias know you would be in the barn? Well, perhaps it was a lucky guess; or perhaps he left some occult spy here. Dera, Calandryll! Your logic outpaces me! I had not thought of that! Thank the Goddess that you did.”
Abruptly he was on his feet, his handsome features troubled. Calandryll pushed his unfinished breakfast away, following him as he strode toward the door. Coins were flung carelessly to the landlord, his thanks dismissed with a hurried wave as Varent surged into the courtyard.
The wagon was already loaded, the ambassador’s men saddling their mounts. Bracht stood by his stallion, his blue eyes curious as Varent, with Calandryll close on his heels, hurried to the cart and clambered beneath the gaudy canopy. Calandryll took the opportunity to toss the practice jerkin on board as Varent opened a small, ornately carved box and rummaged among the contents.
“What’s amiss?”
Calandryll turned as Bracht led the black horse over.
“Lord Varent believes Azumandias may have some magical spy watching us.”
The Kern glanced round, hand dropping to the falchion. Varent emerged from the wagon and brought his left hand to his mouth, murmuring softly. He blew and a cloud of pinkish dust rose from his spread palm, surrounding him in a roseate aura. He lifted his right hand, setting a disk of thick glass held in a silver frame to his eye. Slowly, still murmuring, he turned in a circle, surveying the courtyard.
“He’s a mage?” Bracht demanded.
Calandryll nodded. “He has magical powers.”
The Kern grunted sourly: it appeared such talent reduced Varent further in his estimation.
“There was something,” Varent declared, “but it has gone. Dera! I should have thought of this last night.”
“It would,” said Bracht quietly, “have saved us some trouble.”
Varent seemed not to hear him; he returned the glass to the wagon and beamed at Calandryll.
“All is well, thank the Goddess. No doubt Azumandias placed a spy here, but your defeat of his emissaries banished it.” His smile shifted to encompass Bracht. “You both served me well—my thanks.”
Calandryll returned his smile, grateful for the praise, his doubts resolved. Bracht merely nodded, his face expressionless.
“So, let us leave,” Varent suggested. “Calandryll, take Darth’s horse again. Bracht—you’ll stay close?”
“I’m paid to stay close,” said the mercenary, reaching to his saddle. “Here, Calandryll, take this.”
He tossed a sheathed sword to the younger man. Calandryll caught it and fixed the belt about his waist. He drew the sword, hefting the weight. It was a lesser weapon than either Bracht’s falchion or Varent’s saber, but it sat comfortably enough in his hand. The blade was straight, the steel gleaming dully with the milky look of good Eylian craftsmanship, the quillons slightly curved and rounded at the ends, the hilt wrapped in worn leather, the pommel a small globe of dull steel. He swung it a time or two, experimentally, then sheathed it.
“You owe me five varre,” Bracht said.
“Dera, man!” Varent looked down from his horse. “Do you think of nothing but money?”
“I’m a freesword,” the Kern answered coolly.
“I’ve no coin,” Calandryll apologized.
Varent snorted, fumbling in his sabretache. Irritably, he flung coins in Bracht’s direction. The mercenary caught them deftly, grinning as he slipped them into a pocket. “My thanks,” he murmured, and swung astride his stallion.
Calandryll mounted and heeled Darth’s horse into line as the cavalcade trotted out through the gates.
Varent headed the column, leading them out onto the broad highway linking Secca and Aldarin. The farms that fed the city lay behind them now, the land ahead open territory, and soon they passed the great stone piles marking the boundary of Secca’s influence. Despite Varent’s assurances, Calandryll breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the indicators of his father’s domain go by. He felt safer now: past those markers Bylath’s legionaries had no power; they could not demand his return. He began to grin, his mood lifting. The sky above was blue, streamered with high cirrus, wheeling birds black specks against the azure, their song a chorus of liberation. Before him spread a vista of undulating grassland, sprinkled with woods, a broad river winding, no less blue than the sky, in leisurely curves, the paved road ending on its bank, becoming a wagon trail of hard-packed black earth on the farther side.
They forded the waterway and Varent indicated that they should swing south, across open meadowland.
“If Azumandias has planned any further surprises,” he explained, “they’ll be on the road. We’ll take the lesser trails and be in Aldarin before he knows it.”
“What of his mystic spies?” asked Bracht.
“What of them?” returned Varent cheerfully. “Not even Azumandias can guess our path. We’re safe for the moment: trust me.”
Bracht grunted what might have been an affirmative and allowed his horse to fall back, putting a little distance between them. He seemed dissatisfied and Calandryll eased his own mount alongside.
“Why do you dislike him so?” he queried.
The Kern shrugged and shook his head, not speaking.
“I trust him,” Calandryll insisted, “and he’s offered only friendship.”
“That serves his own purpose,” Bracht murmured. “He needs you because you speak the Old Tongue and now, it seems to me, you’re in his power.”
“How so?” Calandryll stared at the mercenary. “He brought me out of Secca—saved me from the priesthood; risked my father’s anger. Was that not the act of a friend?”
“And should you refuse his quest? What then?”
“The spaewife foretold the quest,” Calandryll argued. “Varent must be one of the comrades she said I should meet; you must be the other.”
“Perhaps, but that does not answer me,” Bracht insisted. “You’re in his power.”
Calandryll frowned his incomprehension.
“You’ve fled from your father,” Bracht explained, “and cannot return to Secca. You’re without money—by Ahrd! Varent had to buy that sword for you! The horse you ride, he provided; the food you eat, he buys. Did you not agree to Varent’s quest, you’d be a wanderer, a footloose vagabond. You’ve nowhere to go but Aldarin; and only Varent to rely on when you arrive. Without him, you’d likely starve. Do you say you’re not in his power?”
“What if I am?” Calandryll grew defensive. “Aren’t you?”
“He pays me,” Bracht said bluntly.
Did the quest mean no more to him than that?
“I trust him. I have faith in him.” Calandryll’s voice was cold.
Bracht shrugged again, doubt written clear on his swarthy features.
“It is said in Cuan na’For,” he remarked, “that a wizard has many faces, and keeps his true face hidden.”
Calandryll found his skepticism irritating. Curtly he demanded. “And what does it mean?”
“That I do not trust him,” Bracht answered evenly.
“Then why do you agree to accompany me?”
Bracht smiled, ignoring the vexed tone.
“Because he pays me,” he repeated.
AT first the journey, for all its promise of adventure, was a nightmare that not even its high purpose could assuage. Calandryll had seldom spent more than a few hours on horseback, riding to the hunt or in ceremonial parades, and now found himself rising beneath a sky still grey to saddle his borrowed mount and ride out at dawn, halting briefly at noon to eat and rest before pressing on until dusk. It seemed that every muscle in his body protested the hardship, and that compounded by the nights spent in the open, a blanket his only covering, the ground his bed. He had never passed a night in the open before; indeed, had never spent a night outside the city, and the discomfort weighed heavy, rendered the worse by Bracht’s silently critical appraisal of his awkwardness. Pride forbade that he complain, however, and so he suffered in miserable silence.
The circuitous route Varent chose meant that the way stations of the marked road were denied them, and the wagon was barely large enough to accommodate one person, reserved for Varent’s use, so Calandryll, like the rest of the party, slept rough on a saddle blanket. The nights were not unduly chill, for the early promise of the spring had fulfilled itself, and the woodlands they traversed provided ample timber for fires, but still the hard ground was a far cry from the comfort of his bed and before long he found the excitement of such an adventure outweighed by the sundry lumps that dug into his ribs and the dew that each morning soaked his hair and face, and sometimes, when he had kicked off his blanket, his clothes. He wished that he could settle with Bracht’s stoic indifference: the Kern simply rolled his blanket around himself each night and, his sword cradled like a lover in his arms, went soundly to sleep. So far as Calandryll could tell, he was not troubled by disturbing dreams.
His own lingered as he rose, rubbing moisture from his face, groaning as his muscles protested, his back aching as he straightened, the thought of another day in the saddle looming like the threat of punishment. Some were vague, so nebulous that they left behind only a feeling of apprehension, an inarticulate wariness, but others remained vivid.
