The Mountain's Call

by Caitlin Brennan

  “So,” said the emperor. After so long a silence, his voice was a little too loud for comfort. “The Call came on you quickly. Even the Augurs had no warning.”

  Kerrec lifted a shoulder in a slight, willfully insolent shrug. “It’s too late now,” he said. “I’ve passed the testing. I belong to the Mountain.”

  “Not necessarily,” Artorius said. “You are the first imperial heir to be Called, but there is precedent for sons of lesser rank. The emperor may supersede the Call, if the empire’s need requires it.”

  “At the moment,” Kerrec pointed out, “it does not. There is no war in progress. The barbarians are as quiet as they can ever be. Even the nobles are more for you than against you. Has that ever happened before?”

  Artorius was keeping his temper with obvious effort. “Once or twice,” he said. “Tell me. Why did you leave without a word?”

  “If I had said anything, would you have let me go?”

  The emperor hesitated just long enough that Kerrec knew the truth, regardless of what he actually said. “I would have tried to understand. The Call is sacred, and the Called must never be hindered. But for it to come to the imperial heir—”

  “I’m not your only child,” Kerrec said. “If you’ll listen to me at all, you’ll put Briana in my place. She’s young, but she’s sensible. Her magic is strong. She—”

  “That is no longer yours to decide,” the emperor said gently.

  Kerrec went perfectly still. He had known what answering the Call would do. When he came to the Mountain, the riders had been relentless in warning the noblemen that once they were accepted, they forfeited everything. They became equal to the slave and the pig-keeper who passed the testing beside them. There was no exception, and no appeal.

  He said so. “Even you can’t drag me home from this.”

  The emperor’s brow arched. “I may not have to. You’re not a rider yet, only the beginning of one.” The long hands unfolded. “I give you a year before your breeding betrays you. You can’t live the common life. It’s not in you.”

  “Why not? You can. You’ll dip your wand in anything that—”

  Finally Kerrec had succeeded in breaking that imperial calm. He had brought his father to his feet and won himself a sweeping, solid blow. He dropped to one knee with his ears ringing, but he did not fall. He saw the disappointment in the emperor’s eyes, then the flinch of guilt.

  “I’ll show you,” Kerrec said. “I’ll be the best rider there ever was.”

  “Don’t strain yourself,” said Artorius. Suddenly he sounded very tired. “Stay here and you have no father. You have no family. You have no existence outside of this place.”

  Those were the words of the rite of binding to the Mountain. The Master had spoken them the night before. They had not seemed so final then, or so empty of hope.

  “You know I’ll stay,” Kerrec said. “I have no choice.”

  “There is always a choice,” the emperor said. “You were all my hope. Now you are nothing. You are not even kin.”

  Kerrec would never let him know how those words tore at his heart. He bent his head, the most that a rider would allow himself in a gesture of respect to a human creature.

  The emperor’s face went cold. “My son is dead,” he said. “The empire will mourn. The priests will sing the rite over an empty tomb.”

  “That’s absurd,” Kerrec said. “You can’t—”

  “The dead may speak,” the emperor said, “but the living have no ears to hear.”

  He turned his back on Kerrec. He shut him out. He rendered him into nothingness.

  The pain of it was almost beyond bearing. But Kerrec was as stubborn as his father. He would not beg or plead. Above all, he would not repudiate the Call. He belonged to the Mountain now. There was no turning back.

  That was twelve years ago. He had not seen the emperor since. Sometimes Briana came to the Mountain, or Kerrec went to Aurelia or one of the lesser cities on errands for the school, and she was there. As far as the emperor was concerned, his elder son no longer existed. His name was erased from the great book of the lineage. An effigy lay in the City of Bones, the tombs outside Aurelia’s walls.

  Kerrec was a dead man. He might walk and talk and ride white stallions, but his heart was as cold as a corpse. He loved nothing. Nothing loved him. He had reached the pinnacle of his order and found nothing there but emptiness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Valeria’s dreams in captivity were fever dreams, dreams of fire. She would wake flushed and trembling, with her body throbbing as if she had been with a lover.

  One night she started awake. Euan was sitting on the side of the bed, dressed in plaid breeks and a golden torque. His hair was loose. He smelled of beer.

  He was not drunk, but he was not sober, either. She meant to scowl and order him out. Instead she caught herself hungering for his touch.

  She watched her hand creep out until it touched his arm. It brushed the soft coppery hairs above his wrist, stroking them smooth.

  He smiled. If he had said anything, she would have driven him away, but he had the sense to be quiet.

  His mood must be as odd as hers. He let her push him back onto the bed and unfasten his belt. She pulled off his breeks. He was still a little slack, but he was growing hard.

  She teased him with fingers and tongue. His breath caught. She smiled to herself. His back had begun to spasm.

  She brushed his eyelids with a kiss. The charm she laid on him was one of the simplest of all. Any village witch could have worked it. She gave him dreams. If he chose to dream of her, then so much the better.

  His arms clasped air. “Valeria,” he breathed. “Valeria!”

  Very carefully she rose from the bed and backed away. She had insisted, with force, that she be given clothes fit to ride in. She pulled on the shirt and breeches and the closely fitted boots. She combed her hair with her fingers, yanking out the tangles.

  On the bed, Euan was making slow and luxurious love to the bolster. She suppressed a pang of guilt. He was her people’s enemy. She was giving him better than most people would have said he deserved. He thought he was spending the night with her, then in the morning he would remember wonders.

  She turned her back on him. Kerrec was somewhere in this maze of a place.

  Her dream tonight had been of him. She had seen him lying on a stone table, and his body was stippled with bruises. A man in a mask bent over him. The mask was eyeless and featureless. She had never seen one like it before, but she knew what it meant. The Brothers of Pain had been haunting children’s nightmares since the empire was young.

  It was not an easy hunt. She was shaking with urgency, but she had to be supremely careful. She had to be invisible to magic, while hunting for a man who had been shielded by strong magic.

  Sabata could not help her. He was under siege from more directions than she could count. In some ways he was in worse straits than Kerrec.

  She roamed the darkened halls until dawn, but she never found the room in which she had dreamed of seeing Kerrec. A different kind of urgency called her back finally to the room she thought of as her prison. The charm was wearing off. She had just enough time to throw off her clothes and slide into bed with Euan before he twitched and snorted and was suddenly awake.

  He smiled warmly and brushed her lips with a kiss. She tried hard to answer his smile, but the best she could do was a wary squint.

  That made him laugh. “Mornings never were your favorite time of day,” he said. “Here, wake up. Kiss me. Then put on your clothes. I have a surprise for you.”

  Her heart leaped, but she crushed it down. Euan would not give her Kerrec, free or otherwise. Something else had him bubbling over with excitement.

  “I wanted to tell you about it last night,” he said, “but then I thought, no, let her be innocent for yet a while. It’s very good, this surprise. I think it will make you happy.”

  Nothing but Kerrec, freedom and the road to Aurelia would do that. Sh
e bit her tongue to keep from saying it.

  She gave him his kiss, a brush of lips across his. Naturally he wanted to turn it into something more. So did she, in spite of herself. It was a while before she could pull herself away and dress again in the clothes she had just got out of.

  He had little to do but pull on his breeks and belt them, and braid his hair out of the way. He waited, dancing slightly with impatience, for her to finish bracing herself to face the day.

  After two days of fog and rain, it was a beautiful morning. Sunlight sparkled on the wet grass. Wisps of cloud dissolved over the mountains.

  The eastward wing of the lodge opened onto a grassy terrace that looked out over the valley and the lake. A table was spread there. Silver and crystal gleamed in the sun. Sprays of autumn flowers wound among the plates and bowls and cups.

  Gothard was sitting at the table, looking as if he had been carousing all night. Valeria knew the marks of too much magic sustained too long. They looked remarkably like the aftermath of debauchery.

  A stranger sat with Gothard. Her first thought was that Gothard had captured another rider. Her second was that he had only captured half of one.

  He was an older man, maybe Master Nikos’ age. His hair was abundant and beautifully silvered, sweeping back in waves from an elegant and aristocratic face. He was the very image of a senior rider, with his perfectly upright carriage and his air of quiet mastery. And yet when Valeria looked at him, she thought of an apple with a worm in its core.

  “Mestre Olivet,” Euan said from just behind her.

  “My lord,” said the man, inclining his head. His dark eyes came to rest on Valeria. A gleam woke in them. “And this—can it be…?”

  “It can,” Euan said. He sounded terribly smug. “This is Valeria. Valeria, this is—”

  “Olivet,” said the man, rising and coming forward. He caught her hand before she could escape, and kissed it. “My lady! It is an honor. A very great honor. To stand in the presence of such power—to know that it might consider—” He sighed deeply. “Ah! The gods are kind.”

  This was supposed to be a seduction. The elegant breakfast, the beautiful setting, were meant to lull her into complacence. Then she would be ripe for what Mestre Olivet had to say.

  She did want to hear it, but not for the reasons he might be expecting. He was a mage, and strong, but the power of a rider, the power of the Mountain, was nowhere in him. When she looked for it, she saw open wounds, and all the stallions’ magic bled away.

  Only one thing was left of the powers of a master. He could seduce the gullible. His eyes drew people in, and his voice cast a spell.

  He insisted that she eat before he began his speech. He filled a plate with his own hands, choosing dainty bits of things that he must think a lady would find tempting. Left to herself she would have gone for the corn porridge and the hotcakes, but he selected little pastries and delicate slices of smoked fish wrapped around slivers of vegetables or fruit. Everything was either sweet or sweeter, and most of it had more charm than substance.

  She choked it down and resolved to find herself a real breakfast later. When she could not eat one more bite, she slid the plate away as politely as she could.

  Mestre Olivet seemed as relieved as she. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Now come.”

  She had braced herself to be talked at, at length. Instead he took her to a stable not far from the one in which Sabata was imprisoned. Horses were waiting, saddled. They were mortal horses, and none was either white or grey. They had a look of studied patience.

  “If you please, lady,” said Mestre Olivet, “I would like to see you ride.”

  Valeria almost laughed. Euan was grinning. He had known. He also knew that she would rather ride than anything else in the world.

  She was not ready to thank him yet. She knew the look of a test by now, and this was one.

  She took her time choosing a horse. Of the six that were there, the red mare seemed the least resigned to her fate. Valeria introduced herself courteously, letting the mare sniff her hands, then stroking the mare’s head and neck. The saddle was pinching. Valeria requested another, and waited until one was brought that fit less poorly, if still not well.

  When the mare was saddled, Valeria mounted. The mare stiffened, expecting pain. It took some few minutes to convince her that there would be none. She was ready then to offer her paces, with evident pride, in the order in which she had been taught them.

  Someone who did not know the Dance might think that she danced. She shifted from foot to foot. She sidled neatly across the riding court. She spun and reared. She bowed prettily.

  Valeria gave up trying to ride and sat quietly, doing her best not to interfere. It was nothing like the test of the Dance that Petra had given her on the Mountain. That had been great power and strong magic. This was trickery.

  None of the people watching appeared to know the difference. Gothard might, but he had not troubled himself to walk as far as the stable. Mestre Olivet was smiling in evident pleasure. “You have great art,” he said when Valeria brought the mare back toward him and halted. “Great art. A little rough, a little unpolished, but that will come. You, lady, are a rider.”

  Valeria bit her tongue. She had been going to ask if the mare was mistrained, and if that had been the test, to know what to do in the face of so many errors.

  But Mestre Olivet said, “This that you chose, she is the best of our school. You rode her beautifully. We can teach you, indeed we can.”

  “There are other women in your school, yes?” said Euan.

  “There are several,” Mestre Olivet answered. “None as talented as this, but they are among my best pupils. Women, I find, are more supple of mind and more delicate in their responses. Their bodies fit less well into the saddle than men’s, but they are less difficult to teach and more willing to take correction. Once they begin to learn, they learn quickly. They love the horses, and the horses return the favor.”

  “So it’s not just a magic for men.”

  “There is no magic to the riding of horses,” said Mestre Olivet. “Experience, perception, observation—all of those, one hones to a high art. The rest is plain hard work and simple attention to detail.”

  This man had held the rank of First Rider. He had been a mage of great power and discipline. Now he denied it all.

  And yet, Valeria thought, for him she could be a rider. Maybe she could teach as well as learn. Maybe he could be persuaded to pass on what he had known, even if he had left it behind.

  She was slipping, if she could think such thoughts after such a ride. He was still talking. “All the years that the men on the Mountain claim are necessary to make a rider—nonsense. They cloak their art in obscurity, whereas the truth is divinely simple. A year, two years, and any talented horse or rider can achieve the heights of art.”

  “It can’t be that easy,” Valeria said before she could stop herself.

  “So they say on the Mountain,” said Mestre Olivet.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Valeria smiled and nodded and listened as best she could. Mestre Olivet seemed not to notice that she was giving him less than her full attention. Her mind kept wandering. She kept remembering what the stallions had taught her. Men could be mistaken, but surely the white gods knew how to dance the Dance.

  Mestre Olivet made no move to visit Sabata. He did not speak of the stallion or express interest in him. All his talk was of his school and its noble students and its even more noble patrons, none of whom she had ever heard of. He never talked about the horses.

  Finally, late in the day, she could escape. Sabata needed to be fed and looked after. Mestre Olivet did not offer to help.

  A real master would have asked to see the stallion, to be sure he was properly cared for. Valeria found that she was quite out of patience with Mestre Olivet. She attacked the stall cleaning with such force that Sabata backed away and snorted. She apologized to him, but a few moments later she was spreading straw with mu
ch more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. He backed to the door and sneezed explosively.

  She flung down the last armful and stamped her feet in frustration. “That man,” she said to the stallion. “That man! I cannot believe that he ever made rider, let alone First Rider. He is an absolute and empty windbag.”

  Sabata pawed the door. He wanted out, and no wonder.

  She should ask before she acted, but she was in no mood to be sensible. She shot the bolt. In the same moment, she pushed the wards outward as far as her strength would allow. That was surprisingly far. Gothard was not done for yet, but he was a great deal weaker than he had been. As far as she could tell, he did not know what she had done, or if he did, he made no move to stop her.

  Sabata stood in the doorway, nostrils flared as wide as they would go. Without warning he launched himself into the free air.

  For a heart-stopping moment she knew he would break through the thinned and weakened wards and escape. The temptation was overwhelming. But he resisted it. He threw up his tail and ran around and around the field in front of the stable, but he never offered to go past the subtle shimmer of the wards.

  When he had run the wildness out, he trotted up to her and blew into her hand. She slipped arms around his neck. He was barely sweating. She inhaled the warm musky scent of him, burying her face in his mane. “You should have gone,” she said.

  He snapped his teeth next to her ear, but he knew better than to nip. She was there. He would stay. That was all there was to it.

  That night she had to endure an endless dinner with the man whom everyone seemed to be regarding as her new teacher. Afterward, Euan followed her to her room.

  She surprised herself with how much she wanted him. Or maybe she should be honest and admit that she wanted what he had to give her. It was a release. It took her mind, however briefly, off her predicament.