The Mountain's Call

by Caitlin Brennan

“A mage?”

  “No. Something better for our purposes. He sees magic.”

  Kerrec frowned. He had a look about him that warned her that he was nearing the edge of his endurance. “They need Gothard to maintain wards and shields, and to break through into the hall. Without the stones, most of his protective magic will be gone. He’ll be guarding them with his life. What makes your guardsman think he can take them away?”

  “Several things,” Briana said. “Our dear brother’s arrogance, for one. For another, no one knows you’re here. As far as our brother and his men know, you’re safe on the Mountain.”

  “Even if they find out that the stallions rescued me, they won’t be looking for me here.” Kerrec straightened carefully. What he said next was not easy for him at all, nor did he say it with anything resembling gladness. “We’ll have to tell the emperor all of this. We can’t keep it from him. We need him.”

  “He may not be able to help,” Briana said.

  “He’ll have to. I’m not strong enough, and you can’t do it alone.”

  “His magic—”

  “His mind is still working, isn’t it? We can use that.” Kerrec turned, swaying a little. “We can’t stand about talking. There’s no time. I’ll speak to his majesty, if you will—”

  “You are going to rest,” she said. “Whatever miracle is mending you, you’re still a long way from done. Go, sleep for a while. I’ll wake you after I’ve spoken with Father.”

  He was not at all willing to do as she told him, but he was nearly out on his feet. She half carried him to his bed and lowered him into it. Consciousness let go of him before he touched the coverlet.

  Urgency tugged at her, but she paused, looking down at him. Even in sleep his eyes were sunken. The bruises on his face and hands were at their most alarming, and the rest of his body must be even worse, shaded in green and black and purple. His magic had the same patchwork look to it. Memory seemed to have come back in full force, but the effort of it had worn him to exhaustion.

  Gothard had a great deal to atone for. She stooped and kissed Kerrec’s brow. It was a promise of sorts, that the brother who had come so close to destroying him would pay for what he had done.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Mestre Olivet had established himself in a room even larger than Valeria’s, in a chair remarkably like the imperial throne in the Hall of the Dance at the school. As Valeria came in, she found that Gothard had arrived before her. Mestre Olivet’s expression was sour. Whatever had brought Gothard here, Mestre Olivet had had nothing to do with it.

  Gothard never smiled. That would have strained his sullenness beyond endurance. But he was perceptibly less sullen than usual. “It’s done,” he said. “The blow has fallen on the emperor.”

  “He’s dead?” Olivet asked.

  “No,” said Gothard. “We need him alive, so that the Dance will go on. He’s wounded, and the knives were poisoned. The poison eats magic. By the day of the Dance, he should be as mortal as a man can be. Then, when the Dance is over, we’ll dispose of him.”

  Valeria tried to imagine speaking this coldly, with this much satisfaction, of destroying her father, or even her mother. The thought made her ill.

  Mestre Olivet seemed none too pleased by it. Maybe it annoyed him that Gothard had invaded his audience with Valeria. “That’s well,” he said. “That’s well, indeed. But if you will pardon me, while your emperor is unable to protect his Dance, this student of mine must—”

  “I should think you would be the student,” Gothard said. “You’re losing power almost as fast as my father is. Can you stop it, or are you past it? Do you need me to ward what’s left?”

  Olivet drew himself up sharply. Valeria fully expected to see a mage-bolt fly, but the air barely crackled. Gothard had seen the truth of it. Olivet’s magic had unraveled. The spells of Unmaking had undone it.

  “I need nothing,” Olivet said through clenched teeth, “but your presence elsewhere. There is much to do before the Dance. The less distraction we suffer, the sooner and more thoroughly it will be done.”

  “You do your work,” Gothard said, “and I’ll do mine. Be patient with your student. Or should I bid her be patient with you?”

  He bowed to Olivet, so low as to be mocking, and saluted Valeria. Olivet kept his eyes fixed on the wall until Gothard was gone. Then he said, “I hope you will pardon me, lady, but tonight I think, after all, you should rest.”

  Valeria made no secret of her relief. Let him think she was merely tired. So she was, but once freed from the obligation of playing student, she recovered remarkably.

  She had half dreaded that either Olivet or Gothard would place her under guard, but it seemed they trusted the wards that lay thick on this house, woven into the stones and anchored to the earth.

  She found her riding clothes after a search that, with an effort, managed not to be frantic. They had been cleaned and folded away in the chest at the foot of the bed. Her boots were with them, cleaned likewise. With a prayer of thanks for the kindness of servants, she dressed and glided silently toward the door.

  Wards stung her fingers as she touched it, but she had expected that. Hissing a little at the small but effective pain, she looked inside her, peering down deep. Sabata stared back. She washed herself in his white brilliance, letting it fill her until it overflowed.

  As she had hoped, the wards no longer saw her as human, but perceived her as a shimmer of light. She ran swiftly down the hallway, alert for guards or servants. Twice she darted into a doorway or the landing of a stair, as someone she did not recognize strode past. One seemed to be a servant. The other was richly dressed and followed by a pair of guards and second pair of persons in stiff livery. One of Gothard’s allies, she supposed. He looked as haughty as Paulus. Probably he was a relative.

  She escaped the house undetected by men or magic, and turned in the direction she hoped she remembered. The night was very dark, the waning moon not yet up. She could see no stars. The air smelled of damp and the sea.

  It was different on foot and in the dark, the distances longer, the turns less certain. So much magic and so many human souls overlapped and interwove that she could make no sense of them. But for Sabata’s presence inside her and her own determination that she must do what she had set out to do, she would have turned and run back to the safety of Gothard’s house.

  She made her way as best she could, keeping panic at bay and counting turns under her breath. The streets were nearly empty. All the crowds had retreated within doors for the night, or been herded out of the city before the last of the light.

  There were no beggars here where the nobles lived, and no footpads, either, as far as she could tell. Sabata’s power protected her, shielding her from spying eyes as well as wards and magic.

  Just as she was sure that she had lost the way irretrievably, the long dark street opened into emptiness. On the other side of it, gold glimmered in the air. That was the dome of the temple, and there were the walls and towers she remembered, shadowy in the gloom. Lamps were lit around the square, the light of each forming its own circle, as if each lamp on its pole were enclosed in wards.

  The house that Euan had named to her as belonging to the riders was dark. The protections on it were more powerful than Gothard’s by far. A fortress of magic overlaid the walls of stone.

  Sabata’s power rose inside her and unfolded like a cloak, wrapping itself around her. Hidden in it and protected by it, she passed the gate as if it were made of mist.

  There was light inside, ordinary lamps burning perfectly mortal oil. The scent of magic pervaded the place. A deep stillness lay on it, a supernal calm. This was not a temple and the riders were not priests, and yet the best word Valeria could find for the quality of that stillness was holy.

  She walked softly through halls and courtyards, guided by Sabata’s presence. She emerged after some time into a grassy court with a low building at the end of it, up against the house wall. There were the stallions, fifteen of th
em. The peace of this place came from them and flowed through them.

  They were waiting for her. She was not to trouble the riders, who were deep in meditation, preparing for the Dance. She had heard that often enough to be completely out of patience with it, but the stallions seemed almost amused. Poor simple mortals, who needed such effort to perceive the most obvious of patterns.

  Valeria had been thinking much the same. She drew herself up short. It was all very well for gods to look on mortals as beloved but rather foolish. She was not a god, or anything like one.

  Nevertheless she could not help what she felt. She had spent too much time with the stallions and too little with their riders. She had learned to think like a stallion.

  She eased open the door of their stable. They were asleep or eating lazily, as if they were common horses in their stalls at night. Their light was muted, but so many together equaled the light of a full moon.

  As glad as she was to see them, they were not the ones who needed to hear her message. She meant to pay her respects and then go hunting riders, but when she tried to retreat, the door would not open behind her.

  She turned to face the stallions. “I have to tell them,” she said.

  None of them responded.

  Even knowing it was futile, she raised her voice. “I have to! There are plots against them. The Dance—”

  “What? What is this?”

  The voice floated down from the hayloft. Even blurred with sleep, it sounded haughty. That was the accent of an Aurelian noble, followed soon enough by Paulus as he swung himself down from the loft. He had a knife in his hand and a wild look in his eye, which moderated not at all when he recognized Valeria. “You! What are you doing here?”

  One of the stallions snorted and pawed his stall door. The sound of hoof striking oak was deafening. It brought Paulus up short.

  “Paulus,” Valeria said with a kind of resignation. Of course it could not be Batu or Iliya who had been set on watch over the stallions tonight. “I have to speak to Master Nikos. Can you get me in?”

  He drew himself to his full height, which for an imperial was rather impressive. “All the riders are secluded. No one is to intrude on them for any reason.”

  “Not even to stop the disruption of the Dance?”

  He was not listening. “Where have you been? Where is the First Rider? Why did you leave us? The Master sent some of the men to look for you, but they couldn’t find anything. What have you done? What—”

  “I have to speak to the Master,” Valeria said.

  “You can’t,” said Paulus.

  “I have to.”

  “No one can get in,” Paulus said. “Do you understand? They’re completely warded. The Dance can’t be disrupted. There’s no way to get near the riders.”

  “Yes, there is,” said Valeria. “When they come to the Hall, the protections will be gone.”

  “But who would dare—”

  Valeria decided quickly. If she could not get to the Master—and it was all too clear that there was no hope of it—then she had to trust this boy, somehow, to do what he could. She answered him as clearly as she knew how. “An alliance of barbarians, a renegade First Rider named Olivet and the emperor’s half-bred son.”

  “Marcellus? But—”

  “They call him Gothard. He has a dire grievance, and altogether too much magic with which to pursue it.”

  “Marcellus,” Paulus said. He seemed less stunned now, and more willing to consider the possibility. “He was completely out of temper when the emperor passed him over and named Sophia Briana his heir. Still, this—”

  “He’ll kill the emperor,” Valeria said, “and wrest the Dance away from the riders, and try to shape the patterns in his allies’ favor.”

  “He can’t do that. No matter how powerful he is, he’s a mage of stones. He can’t influence the Dance. No one can, except the stallions.”

  Valeria drew a deep breath. This was difficult. “They have a stallion. They have Sabata.”

  “And a renegade First Rider.” Paulus looked as if he wanted to faint.

  “Listen,” Valeria said. “This prince, this Gothard, is ruthless. He captured and tortured First Rider Kerrec. He’s safe now—he was rescued and sent to the Mountain—but Gothard and his allies truly will stop at nothing. The riders must be prepared. I think—I think there will be a spell of Unmaking.”

  “How do you know this?” Paulus demanded. “Where have you been? If they had Kerrec and they have Sabata, that means—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Valeria said. “Just get word to Master Nikos. Promise you’ll do that.”

  “Not until you tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. You lied to us all once. How do I know you’re not doing it again?”

  “It is the truth,” Valeria said. “I swear by the Call, it is.” She began to draw away. “I have to go. Promise—”

  He seized her arm in a painful grip. “What have you been doing? You said they have Olivet. Did he get at you? Have you gone over to him?”

  “If I had, would I be here? Would I be trying to warn you?”

  “To throw us off the scent, yes. You would.”

  “Maybe I’m trying to throw them off the scent,” she said. She wrenched free. “Tell the Master. Let him be the one to judge. If nothing happens to the Dance, you’ve lost no more than the effort of raising defenses.”

  He did not respond to that. His face was set in lines of resistance.

  She flung her last weapon. “There’s been an attempt on the emperor’s life. Gothard is preening himself over it. He’s tortured his brother nearly to death, and now he’s poisoned his father. Gods know what he’ll do to his sister, whom he must hate above all, but do be sure he has something in mind.”

  “You are with him,” said Paulus.

  “I traded myself for Kerrec’s life,” she flung at him. “I know what that makes me. If you can stop this, then by the gods, do it.”

  Paulus lunged. She ran.

  This time the door opened for her. She darted out into the night, with Paulus hard on her heels.

  He stumbled. She heard his curse, and the thud of his body striking the ground. There was a quiver in her, a ripple of satisfaction. The stallions had aided her escape.

  Their will was like a hand between her shoulders, thrusting her out and away from the riders’ house, through the square and down the street that led to Gothard’s palace. Only then was she allowed to pause. She collapsed against a wall, sobbing for breath. “Why?” she cried to them with what little voice she had to spare. “Why?”

  She did not expect an answer, nor did she get one. The best they granted her was a sense of inevitability. This was the pattern. She would dance it, as would they all. It would end as it was meant to end.

  A mortal could not comprehend the gods. They might let her see a fraction of their purposes, and know a glimmer of the thoughts that moved them, but her mind was too small and her understanding too limited.

  Sabata was waiting for her in the confinement he had, however late and unwillingly, chosen. For once he was as serene as the rest of them. She wished that she could share that serenity, but she was human. She could only see the web of deception and dishonor, and herself caught in it, bound too tightly to escape.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Euan caught Valeria before she reached her rooms. She thought she was being stealthy, but she was crushed by an exhaustion as much of the soul as of the body. She did not even see him until he loomed in front of her. “You’ve been out,” he said. “I’ve been waiting. Where—”

  “Sabata,” she said without thinking. “Sabata called me.”

  He laid his arm over her shoulders and turned. She leaned against him, too tired to resist, and let him support her down the rest of the passage and through the door.

  He undressed her gently, without passion, though there was plenty of that inside him if she wanted it. Evidently he believed her. He did not badger her with questions, only sai
d, “Sabata doesn’t like the city.”

  “Not at all,” she said.

  He had left her shirt, which she found interesting. He lay beside her, fully dressed except for his boots, but did not try to kiss or touch her. “He wouldn’t stay if he didn’t want to, would he? He’s a god. Mortal magic means nothing to him.”

  Valeria struggled to clear her mind. Maybe he did not suspect that she had been betraying her own betrayal, but he was dismayingly close to other and equally dangerous truths. “He says that it is meant,” she said.

  That was true. It appeared to satisfy Euan. He stretched and yawned and smiled. “Your gods are with us,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, it seemed he was right.

  When she opened her eyes again, wan daylight washed the room. The clouds were thick and grey. She could hear the wind wuthering in the eaves. Faint and distant but still perceptible, she heard a soft roar and sigh that must be the voice of the sea. It seemed restless, like some vast beast disturbed in its sleep.

  Euan was gone. Breakfast waited on the table beside the bed. It was simple, bread and fruit and a cup of something hot and bitter but laced with sweetness. At first she grimaced, but after the second sip she rather liked it. It had the feel of a tonic about it. There was no magic in it, and nothing harmful.

  The messenger was waiting when she finished. It hovered like an insect in a shaft of sunlight, wings a blur, jeweled body gleaming. When she looked directly at it, it darted away toward the door.

  Mestre Olivet had sent it, although it was not his magic that animated it. She found him in a small and cluttered room, with books heaped around him and a shard of crystal in his hand. The messenger hovered above it, poised, then darted down into it. The stone swallowed it.

  “You are not a mage of stones,” Valeria said.

  He smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Our noble host is not the master of all magics,” he said, “nor does he understand the Unmaking. It may avail itself of other magics as it chooses, if the master has sufficient strength of will.”