Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  The column was close, winding through the birchlined avenue, Varent riding alongside the wagon in conversation with Darth. “I think,” Bracht murmured as the cart approached, “that my suspicions are better kept to ourselves.”

  Calandryll ducked his head in agreement: if Varent knew of the Kern’s mistrust he might well dispense with him, and Calandryll was loath to forfeit the freesword’s company.

  “But I would discuss the byah with him,” he said.

  “As you wish,” Bracht agreed. “Though not my interpretation of its warning.”

  Calandryll nodded and they waited for the column to reach their position, then Bracht gestured toward the timber.

  “The trees grow thick down there. It will be hard going for the wagon.”

  “I know a path,” smiled Varent. “You enjoyed your gallop?”

  “Yes,” Calandryll answered, “it was … enjoyable.”

  “But?”

  Varent’s dark eyes studied his face and he frowned, glancing at Bracht. The Kern offered no response so he said, “We encountered magic.”

  Varent’s brows rose inquiringly, inviting explanation. Calandryll brought his mount alongside, flanked by Bracht. “There was a glade,” he offered, “with a great oak at its center. A being—Bracht named it a byah—came from the tree and spoke to us.”

  “I have heard of the byah.” Varent leaned forward in his saddle, looking past Calandryll to the silent Kern. “Are they not manifestations of Ahrd?”

  “Yes,” said Bracht.

  Varent beamed as though delighted with this confirmation.

  “A byah! Would that I had been with you,” he declared wistfully. “They appear only to worshipers of the Oak, I understand. If I remember correctly they are benign creatures, likely to offer sound advice. Did you receive such?”

  “It told us to beware of lies,” Calandryll nodded. “It said that deception cloaks our path, and that we should trust one another.”

  “Sound advice, indeed,” smiled Varent, “when you face the mendacity or such as Azumandias. The byah appear only rarely, I believe, and I doubt it would show itself again. What do you think, Bracht?”

  “I think it accomplished its purpose,” the Kern answered. “It will not appear again.”

  “A pity.” Varent sighed. “I’d dearly love to see such a being. But the tree remains—will you guide me to it?”

  “You seem unsurprised,” Calandryll said, himself somewhat taken aback by the ambassador’s cheerful acceptance of the creature.

  “No,” Varent said, “Why should I be? From what I have read, Ahrd is the father of forests and his presence may be found everywhere the great oaks grow. Just as Burash holds sway over all the oceans, so is Ahrd present in the forests.”

  “But surely Lysse is Dera’s domain,” Calandryll said.

  “Indeed,” Varent agreed, “but still there is room for other gods. I have a most interesting work on the subject of theogony in my library. By Marsius—do you know it?”

  Calandryll shook his head.

  “I shall find it for you when we reach Aldarin,” Varent promised.

  “Might Azumandias not have conjured the byah?” Calandryll wondered.

  “Not here.” Varent waved a hand, indicating the trees that now surrounded their path. “How could he know our whereabouts? No, my friends, we are safe from his glamours for the moment.”

  Calandryll glanced sidelong at Bracht, hoping the free-sword was satisfied with this response. Varent accepted the manifestation too readily to fear it: his interest was that of the scholar. Had he thought the creature warned against him, surely he would have shown some sign of alarm, would not wish to visit the site of its appearance. And he appeared supremely confident that it was not some conjuration or his rival. If anything, his words agreed with Bracht’s own beliefs, save in their diverse interpretations of the warning. Bracht was wrong, he decided: as he suspected, the Kern’s dislike clouded his judgment. Reassured, he nodded, smiling; he was fortunate to have encountered Varent.

  “Well,” the ambassador asked, “will you show me this wondrous oak?”

  Calandryll looked again at Bracht, not quite ready to agree without the Kern’s approval, and saw him duck his head, turning his stallion from the line of march. Varent called to his men to proceed, following the mercenary into the depths of the forest.

  They reached the glade and dismounted. The oak stood majestic at the center, but now it seemed only a tree, huge, impressive in its age and vast size, but otherwise mundane. The sunlight seemed brighter here only because of the space around the tree, and the earlier stillness, the solemn silence, was replaced with bird song and the gentle rustling of a breeze. Varent walked toward the oak, staring up at the spreading branches. Calandryll saw Bracht watching the man, as though anticipating some revelation of falsity, some confirmation of his suspicions, but Varent appeared merely a scholar, fascinated by the vast growth. He drew close, touching the bole, smiling as a squirrel chattered from a branch, and paced slowly around the trunk.

  “Do you still believe the byah warned of him?” Calandryll whispered.

  Bracht nodded without speaking; Calandryll grunted, frustrated by the Kern’s irrational obstinacy.

  “Magnificent!” Varent came toward them, beaming delightedly. “If a byah was to appear anywhere, it must surely be from such a splendid tree.”

  He halted, turning to study the oak afresh. Bracht said, “You seem familiar with the ways of Cuan na’For.”

  Varent ducked his head absently, absorbed in his observation.

  “I have made a study of most religions. As I mentioned to Calandryll, Marsius is quite fascinating—you should read him.” He laughed briefly, waving an apologetic hand. “Forgive me, I forget you cannot read.”

  Bracht said nothing and Varent went to his horse.

  “Fascinating. I am pleased to have seen it, but now we should rejoin the others.”

  He mounted the chestnut, favoring the glade with a final glance as if hoping something might yet appear, then urged his mount back through the beeches. Calandryll followed, Bracht at the rear, his swarthy face impassive, and they trotted after the column.

  FOR two days and a half they traversed the forest, emerging on the scarp of a ridge that descended through thinning stands of birch to a grassy plain. Feral cattle grazed there, and horses, scattering from their approach with tossing horns and wild waving manes. They forded three shallow streams and floated the wagon across a river, spending the remainder of that day on the far bank, drying clothes and gear, their horses content to crop on the lush grass. Varent’s men welcoming the leisure. Calandryll enjoyed no such respite, for Bracht declared that it was time he improved his sword skills and as he no longer suffered from the aching muscles and stiffness that had at first plagued him, he had no reason to argue. They were, after all, drawing steadily closer to Aldarin and the real start of the quest, when swordwork might well be heeded.

  From noon to dusk, and then each evening when they halted, the Kern drilled him in the finer points of sword-play as Varent and his men looked on, calling advice and shouting encouragement. Calandryll was pleased to find that he grew more limber with each passing day: he had, as Bracht had remarked, hardened, and he did his best to give a good account of himself as he faced the mercenary.

  Bracht’s praise as he improved delighted him and he was surprised to find that he took a pleasure in their duels that he had never known under the instruction of Torvah Banul on the practice grounds of his father’s palace. Sleep, too, was a newfound boon, for when they cleared the forest his dreams ceased altogether.

  He had thought them gone, but after the visitation of the byah they returned, as though the trees themselves sent visions, though of what he was uncertain. He would drift comfortably into sleep only to find himself standing once more in the clearing, moonlit in his dreaming, silvery light filtering through the branches of the great oak, the night silent and still all round. The byah would emerge from the substance of
the tree and walk toward him with upraised arms, the twigs of its fingers spread wide so that he was unsure whether it raised its limbs in warning or threat. It would speak, but the words always got lost in the wind that blew then, cold and fierce so that the dendriform creature stood shaken by the gust, returning slowly, as if defeated, to blend again with the oak. As it merged, Bracht and Varent would come from the shadows at the oak’s base, each man beckoning him, calling him to join them, to left or right of the tree, and he would stand undecided, knowing he must choose between them, but not knowing to which one he should go.

  This dream stayed with him until they reached the grasslands, as though the power of the tree ended there, but once the forest lay behind them he slept untroubled.

  He decided, finally, that the dream was not a sending of the byah but a product of his own making, the result of his increasingly divided loyalties. He remained confident that Varent’s purpose was unimpeachable, but Bracht’s mistrust was implacable, and that still disturbed him. A bond grew with the Kern, begun when they fought the demons together, cemented by his own guarding of the freesword’s doubts, strengthened by the hours spent together. He no longer saw the mercenary as merely a hired man, motivated by desire for Varent’s coin, but as a friend; and Bracht no longer evinced that vague contempt for his softness, his inexperience, but seemed to regard him increasingly as an equal, a comrade. It was as though, with their sharing of the byah’s warning, he had passed a further unspoken test, earning himself a higher place in Bracht’s estimation, and he valued that.

  On the other hand, he trusted Varent, enjoying the ambassador’s urbane company no less than the Kern’s. At night, after sword practice was ended, and often as they rode, Varent would discourse on the history of Lysse, the religions of their world, a myriad topics in which the ambassador was well-versed as any pedagogue, and Calandryll delighted in his erudition as keenly as he found himself enjoying Bracht’s more physical tutoring.

  It was a time he thought of later with some nostalgia: a time of innocence, almost idyllic.

  THEY crossed the plain and saw low hills rising before them, the grass ending, giving way to more arid terrain: hard, reddish-brown earth scattered with thrustings of grey and black stone, as if the land was pared to the bone. Still there was no sign of human habitation, nor any magical visitations as they wound a devious route among the knolls, climbing steadily to emerge after three days on a windswept plateau. Varent called a halt there, pointing ahead.

  “Aldarin lies beyond this grass,” he announced. “On the Alda.”

  Calandryll squinted into the heat-hazed distance. The wind was strong, rustling his lengthening hair, whipping his horse’s mane and tail, and on its gusting he could smell the ocean. Far off to the west the land fell down to meet the Narrow Sea, verdant green merging with the blue; and ahead the plateau stretched lush with spring grass. He saw buildings, painted blue, a shade akin to Varent’s tunic, squat and walled, like tiny fortresses, flat roofs bright beneath the cloud-flecked sky.

  “Ranches,” Varent explained, “that provide the city’s meat.”

  He seemed enthusiastic, eager to reach his home city, his men no less so, and they commenced the crossing of the plateau at a brisk pace.

  They encountered drovers, dark-tanned men in tunics and breeks of weather-beaten leather bearing long lances and riding sturdy ponies, who called greetings as they recognized the emblems decorating the wagon, but Varent steered them past the ranches and they camped in the open still, for the two days it took to cross the high grazing land.

  Around midmorning on the third day the plateau fell away in a sweeping slope that ran down to a broad valley, farms and vineyards spread along both sides, the ribbon of the Alda glittering silver blue all down its length. At the foot, where the river met the sea, stood Aldarin.

  Like Secca—like all the cities of Lysse—the place was walled, its buildings contained within the circle of the ramparts. Calandryll saw the paved road running alongside the river, disappearing into great gates of metal-barred timber, mangonels threatening the approach. On the farther side, visible from the vantage point of the slope, was the harbor, spreading to either side of the walls within the bay formed by the valley. Ships lay at anchor there, toylike in the distance, the ramparts of the city extended in two sweeping horns to encompass the bay, blockhouses at their extremities. It was a welldefended place, clearly able to withstand siege, yet festive, the houses colorful, the streets bright and busy.

  The air was fresh, sweetened by the perfumes of the vines and tangy with the salt smell of the blue-grey sea as they followed a drovers’ road that wound down the slope to join the highway. By noon they were at the city gate, halting as a squad of mail-clad soldiers under the command of a captain raised pikes in salute to Varent.

  “Welcome, Lord Varent,” the officer declared, bowing. “Your journey was successful?”

  “Most successful,” Varent replied. “The Domm will be pleased with the outcome.”

  The officer nodded. “You require an escort, my lord?”

  “I think not,” Varent said, smiling. “My own retinue is sufficient, and I’d visit my palace before attending the Domm.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  The captain barked an order and the soldiers formed into ranks, clearing a way into the city. Varent headed the column, Calandryll and Bracht behind as they passed beneath the arch of the walls into a broad market square, gay with stalls and crowded, the folk there parting to let them through. An avenue paved in blue stone led out of the plaza, running between warehouses, straight as the roads bisecting Secca, opening onto more squares bright under the noonday sun, then on through quarters that reminded Calandryll of his home, all bustling, alive with activity.

  Varent turned onto a narrower highway as they approached the center and soon they rode through gardens and past houses attesting to the elevated status of their owners, set back behind protective walls, cool and spacious after the busy streets. Varent halted before a magnificent edifice, its roof and upper story visible beyond a wall of whitewashed bricks, its gates painted a vivid azure. He shouted and men in tunics of blue and gold swung the gates open.

  They bowed, murmuring deferential greetings, and Varent rode between the gates into the courtyard.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said, dismounting.

  Calandryll and Bracht climbed down as servants came running to attend their master. Varent turned to the Kern.

  “No doubt you’ll wish to inspect the stables, though I assure you your horse will be tended.”

  He tossed his own reins to a servant. Calandryll found another waiting to take his, but after a moment’s hesitation he shook his head, eliciting a chuckle from the ambassador, an approving nod from Bracht.

  “I’ll await you inside.”

  Varent seemed to find his refusal amusing and he experienced a flush of embarrassment, as though he had chosen sides. The animal was not, after all, his, though he had groomed it and tended it—another of Bracht’s lessons—since that first day in the caravanserai. He smiled apologetically and followed the Kern across the yard.

  The stables were set to the rear of the house, a long row of spacious stalls shaded by a tiled portico, redolent of sweet-smelling hay and horseflesh. Varent’s men left the wagon there for the house servants to unload, leaving their animals to the grooms and disappearing into the building. Calandryll unsaddled the gelding and rubbed it down, checking that the manger was filled and the trough supplied with sufficient water, grinning as it occurred to him that he had never devoted so much time to a horse: it seemed Bracht’s influence was rubbing off. Then, satisfied, he joined the Kern and together they followed a patiently waiting servant into the house.

  The building was smaller than the Domm’s palace in Secca, but, if anything, more luxurious. High windows admitted the sea-fresh air and the hall in which they found themselves was scented with the plants that grew in great urns of jade and malachite, standing on a floor patterned wit
h blue and gold mosaics, the walls a soft blue that merged with the cerulean of the ceiling to produce the impression that they walked through a submarine garden. Beyond was a corridor where marble busts stood in niches, each one lit by the sun that entered from an artfully cut embrasure on the opposite wall, ending at a door faced with beaten copper. The servant opened the door and ushered them through, into a cool, airy room where Varent waited.

  Here, the walls were white, the floor polished wood laid in chevron patterns, a hearth set with unlit logs to one side, windows to the other. Varent lounged in a high-backed chair, the light accentuating the fine-drawn planes of his aquiline features, his feet thrust out, dusty boots resting on a lacquered stool. He smiled as they entered, rising to fill three silver goblets with rich, red wine, gesturing at the seats arranged in a semicircle about the hearth.

  “A toast,” he declared, “to our safe arrival. Azumandias cannot touch you here.”

  Calandryll accepted the goblet he offered, Bracht the other.

  “I suggest we eat,” Varent said. “Or would you prefer to bathe?”

  Bracht said, “Eat,” and Calandryll nodded his agreement.

  “So be it.” Varent settled himself comfortably and sipped his wine. “The servants will show you to your rooms and provide anything you wish. I must leave you for a while—the Domm will require hews of my dealings with Secca, but I shall likely return late, if not tomorrow. One thing I would impress on you, however—so long as you remain within these walls Azumandias cannot harm you.” He glanced at Bracht, an expression part warning, part apology, as though he understood the Kern’s dislike of sorcery. “I have set spells to ward this place, but outside you are in danger. Azumandias must surely learn of my arrival and will watch this house. Do not leave here, on peril of your lives!”

  “Azumandias is in Aldarin?” Bracht asked.

  “Perhaps.” Varent shrugged. “Certainly his agents are—and his power is considerable, as you know.”

  “Why not kill him?” the freesword demanded bluntly. “Put a blade between his ribs and have done with it.”