“It seems funny for everything to be so wet,” Tiercel said as he squeezed between the table and a large chest to settle beside the fire. His voice was hoarse and a little raspy—probably from spending the night out in the damp. He set the folded curtain down carefully on the carpet and sat down beside it, holding his hands out to the warmth of the coals. “Everything’s wet,” he added.
“It’s the lake,” Harrier said. “The mist should burn off in about a chime.” He glanced up, then got to his feet. Shaiara and Ciniran were returning, carrying the heavy—full—can of water between them. “And we need to be gone from here in about an hour anyway.”
“The lake is still warm!” Ciniran announced, her tones conveying her amazement.
“Don’t they have hot springs in the desert?” Tiercel asked her.
“Why would they need hot springs in the desert, Tyr?” Harrier asked. “They’ve got hot . . . desert.”
He looked around at piles of sand and grass and desert and the mist-shrouded trees in the distance. He heard a dog bark, the sound flattened by the fog. He glanced back at Shaiara. She hadn’t said anything, but her mouth was set in that particular way that wasn’t exactly anger and wasn’t exasperation either, and Harrier knew she was thinking that the North must be a place she really didn’t want to go if the iteru were hot and frozen water fell out of the sky. He sighed.
“We’ll eat. And then I guess we’d better manage to find Bisochim,” he said.
“First you will garb yourself appropriately,” Shaiara said determinedly.
They argued while they finished off the last of the cheese and dried fruit from the night before. A few handfuls of raisins and dried figs, a little cheese, and a couple of tankards of water wasn’t much of a breakfast in Harrier’s opinion, but it was a lot better than no breakfast at all. He presented the same reasonable arguments against dressing as a southern Wildmage that he had last night, reminding Shaiara that people who thought he and Tiercel were probably Demons weren’t going to change their minds just because he changed his clothes.
“They can’t all have ridden with Zanattar,” Tiercel said. He had a handful of raisins, but instead of eating them he was throwing them, one by one into the brazier. “And you are a Wildmage.”
“Yeah,” Harrier said crossly. “So?”
“So custom and habit are strong, Harrier,” Ciniran said. “Show yourself among the people as a Blue Robe, and they will heed your words as the Nalzindar have done.”
“Meaning you can tell them what to do,” Tiercel muttered, continuing to toss raisins into the fire.
“Is that true?” Harrier asked Shaiara.
“No,” she said slowly, though Harrier could tell she would really have liked to say “yes.” “I have never known the Blue Robes to give orders to the tribes. Even the Shadow-Touched dared not order the Ummara—he must bespell them, so that his words seemed to hold the honeyed sweetness of truth.”
“Don’t expect me to do that,” Harrier said briefly. “Even if I could,” he added after a moment’s thought.
“You should still do it,” Tiercel said seriously, looking up for the first time. “Not bespell them or give them orders, I mean. Well, you should probably do that too, at least the giving orders part. But dress as an Isvaieni Wildmage. And then give them orders. Because, um, if I can find Bisochim and talk him into bringing Saravasse here, he and I will be gone, and I don’t know how long we’ll be gone once we get to the Veiled Lands, and . . .”
“And if I don’t tell them to do something, Zanattar’s going to tell them to do something, and I’ll probably like what I tell them better,” Harrier said. “Great. Fine. What shall I tell them?” He didn’t have to be a Knight-Mage to know that someone had to tell the Isvaieni something. That was a lesson Antarans Gillain had impressed upon his four sons early and often, both by homily and by example. It hadn’t been precisely that Da didn’t approve of a man thinking for himself so much as that on the Armethalieh Docks there was a time and a place for everything, including doing just as you liked.
“This place is accursed,” Shaiara said suddenly. “The Isvaieni must return to the Isvai. You must put on the Blue Robes and tell them that.”
Harrier paused to admire her single-mindedness. He supposed that was something you had to have when you were what amounted to Town Magistrate. He was close to resigned to dressing up like an idiot at this point, since both she and Tiercel seemed set on it.
But.
“They’ll scatter,” he said. “Ahairan will be able to pick them off in twos and threes—if she’s out there, and if we reach the Isvai before Tiercel gets back from the Veiled Lands with some Elven Mages. And while—no offense, Shaiara—I wouldn’t lose any sleep if they all died, I wouldn’t want to give any Demon that kind of satisfaction.”
Or that much power, he didn’t add. The Book of the Light didn’t go into detail about how the Endarkened had gained power for their magic, and so he hadn’t known the details until Tiercel’d told him. Until Tiercel had started studying magic properly, it hadn’t occurred to Harrier that magic was as much a matter of buying and selling as any transaction done in the Port Chandler’s store. Only magic “bought” and “sold” in a different currency than the golden suns and silver stars of Armethalieh.
Tiercel laughed sharply, tossing the last of the raisins in his hand into the fire all at once. They hissed and bubbled on the coals, burning with small white flames, and for a moment the scent of burning sugar overlaid the scent of smoke and charcoal. “They won’t scatter,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing his hands clean against his robes. “Not even if it takes us half a year to get back. You’ve seen them, Har. They’re an army now.”
“Oh that’s just great,” Harrier snarled in exasperation. He set his swords carefully down on the carpet and stood. The sun was over the horizon by now and it was already starting to get warm. “Maybe I should just tell them we’re marching on Armethalieh while we’re waiting for you? Because—if you’ve managed to forget—it’s going to be really damned hard for an army like that to feed itself out in the middle of the desert for more than a sennight or two, even if they eat all the animals that we spent most of yesterday getting back here. We had enough trouble watering ten shotors along the Dove Road. How are they going to move thousands of people—and sheep—and goats—and chickens—”
“It can be done,” Shaiara said firmly. “If it is the will of the Wild Magic.”
If he didn’t get out of here—right now—Harrier was either going to break into hysterical laughter or strangle somebody. He scooped up his swords again and strode over to the chest over which Shaiara had draped the pieces of the ridiculous Wildmage costume. In the pale morning light the fabric was very very blue. He grabbed the bundle of cloth and strode off behind the dune to change.
Once he got there, he slipped his carrying bag off his shoulder and set it carefully on the grass. It wasn’t the one that Lanya had given him at Black-rowan Farm, but before they’d all left Abi’Abadshar, Marap had given him one of closely-knotted cords in a style similar to those the Nalzindar used to carry small game. It was not a gift, Marap had assured him carefully, but repayment for his generosity in sharing his knowledge with her so freely. Gift or “repayment,” it held his books and small packets of the few useful plants he’d been able to identify at Abi’Abadshar. And it was better than his lost leather bag in one way—when he’d been caught out in the storm, the rain had just trickled through the open weave. The rain should have completely ruined his Three Books, but of course it hadn’t. Harrier had decided to stop being impressed by their ability to survive and endure. They were magic, and that was what magic things did. He set his swords beside the bag, and began to undress. It would be nice to go for a morning swim, but there were half-a-dozen good reasons not to, ranging from the fact that now that it was light the Isvaieni might decide to come up here and finish what they’d started yesterday to the fact that he couldn’t really be sure about what was in the lak
e.
Shaiara talked about the will of the Wild Magic as if it were something he ought to be able to guess at. Or know. And Harrier didn’t think that was possible—and not just because he wasn’t that good a Wildmage. He didn’t think that was something anyone could do, no matter how good a Wildmage they were. He thought you might be able to tell what the Wild Magic wanted you to do at any particular moment, and you might be able to guess why, but you’d probably never know why, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to guess.
He pulled off his chadar and used it to scrub his hair, then his face. He wondered whose robes these had been. Probably Bisochim’s. Too bad. He started unwrapping the long oversash from the robe he was wearing. The proper length for a sash was (Shaiara had told him) supposed to be twice the height of the wearer. Which meant that Harrier’s hand-me-down sashes were eternally too short. It didn’t make that much of a difference, really—it was the difference between twelve feet of sash and about ten feet of sash—but it wasn’t right, and that annoyed him.
As he unwrapped it, he continued to brood. He suspected that when Shaiara said things like “if it is the will of the Wild Magic” she was thinking the way he’d thought a year and more ago, of the Wild Magic deciding that something would be a good idea and then arranging for it to happen. And he wasn’t even quite sure if he’d be able to discover from the Wild Magic if trying to take ten thousand people (and sheep, and goats, and shotors, and chickens) across the Barahileth would work, or if the attempt would just get them all killed. Maybe the Wild Magic wanted all the Isvaieni dead now. It certainly hadn’t done anything to keep the southern Wildmages alive.
The Dark tricked Bisochim, and Bisochim killed the Wildmages, and Zanattar found out that they were dead, so Zanattar destroyed the Iteru-cities and killed everyone in them. And the Wild Magic could have made any part of that not happen. And it didn’t. And I don’t know why. And I still believe that the Wild Magic is ultimately Good. And I hate believing that, because even if it’s Good, it won’t keep people safe. Not particular people like Tyr and Ciniran and Shaiara and Ma and Da. It’s for something a lot bigger, and . . . and I’m afraid of something so big that it can let ten cities be destroyed because maybe it doesn’t notice. Maybe they’re too small for it to see. Or maybe they had to be destroyed so that Good could win. And maybe the Wild Magic thinks all the deaths will be worth it. I guess—if all those people died to keep the Dark from coming back—if you could ask all of them if they’d do that—they’d say “yes.” But nobody did. And I guess if I have to die and all the people in the tents down there have to die for the same thing, it’s okay. But I thought there’d be battles. And I thought somebody would ask. This way—if I die, if they die—none of us will ever know what it was for.
He supposed it wouldn’t be any different than dying when your ship was caught in a gale at sea—or hit a reef—or ran afoul of one of the thousand other disasters to be found in the midst of Great Ocean. Those sailors and crewmen hadn’t died for anything. They’d just died. He supposed he’d gotten too used to thinking of what he and Tiercel were doing as being for something, as if that meant it would have special rules.
“Guess not,” he said aloud.
He was down to his undertunic by now. He sorted through the pile of fabric. There was even an undertunic to change into, dyed the same intense blue as everything else. A lot of the trade that crossed Armethalieh Dock was southern dyestuffs . . .
Had been, Harrier reminded himself sharply. Not this year, or for years to come.
The oversash was twice as wide as what he was used to, and he found that careful folding allowed him to tuck his Three Books and his packets of herbs directly into it and dispense with his bag entirely. At least the chadar was the same size and shape as he was used to—though of course it, too, was blue. Once he had it wrapped securely into place and tucked into the collar of his robe, he buckled his swords into their accustomed position and carefully folded his discarded garments. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like. Probably something really stupid.
But when he walked back to the others, Ciniran stared at him wide-eyed and Shaiara looked relieved. Even Tiercel didn’t look as if he could figure out precisely what he wanted to say.
“It is as I have said,” Shaiara said, after a long pause.
“All right,” Harrier said. “Fine. Let’s go find Bisochim before Zanattar finds us.”
“You look kind of intimidating,” Tiercel said in a low voice, as they walked away from their campsite.
“By the Light, I hope so,” Harrier answered, equally softly.
THEY’D searched everywhere last night without finding Bisochim. Today, once they came around the edge of the sand pile, he could plainly be seen standing on the far side of the lake. In the daylight, now that the mist had lifted, the full extent of the lake was clearly visible at last. It was enormous—perhaps two miles straight across—and (just as Harrier had said last night) a perfect circle that reflected the pale blue of the morning sky.
Shaiara and Ciniran stopped dead when they got their first sight of the lake.
“It is as large as—As your Great Ocean,” Ciniran exclaimed softly, her eyes round with shock.
“So much open water,” Shaiara murmured in distress.
“It’s all right,” Tiercel said quietly. “It’s just a lake. It’s normal.”
Harrier cleared his throat loudly, trying not to laugh. Tiercel knew perfectly well that there was nothing normal about this lake. But there was no point in upsetting Shaiara and Ciniran any more than they were upset already. “Come on,” he said.
There wasn’t any grass on the far side of the lake—or around the sides. The grass grew all along the near edge of the lake and then simply stopped abruptly. Yesterday all the grass had been green and lush, but in the morning light it looked wilted, its color less brilliant. Maybe it hadn’t been Bisochim’s power that’d made this place, as they’d thought. Or maybe he’d gotten tired of maintaining the spells that kept everything here alive. It’d be a good idea, Harrier thought, to remember that the person they were all about to annoy still had the power to strike them all dead, assuming he wanted to.
But right now Bisochim didn’t even seem to want to get away from them. He simply stood there and waited, staring down into the lake, and as they got closer, Harrier realized that Shaiara and Ciniran were hanging back, letting him and Tiercel go on ahead. He supposed it was just as well, though it wasn’t as if Bisochim couldn’t kill them wherever they were standing.
“Let me talk to him,” Tiercel said, as they approached.
Harrier made a rude noise. “Because that’s been working out so well up till now?”
“Well, what are you going to do, hit him?” Tiercel challenged.
“Maybe,” Harrier said grudgingly. Tiercel ignored him.
“Hi,” Tiercel said, coming to a stop about ten feet away from Bisochim. “I guess I figured we could talk some more about going to the Elven Lands. We’ll need help if we’re going to find and defeat Ahairan.”
“We are enemies, you and I,” Bisochim said, addressing his remarks to the lake. “I am the enemy of all that you hold dear. I have sought your life, with my own spells and through the arts of my creatures. Those whom you loved have died by my hand.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Yeah, I know,” Tiercel answered. His voice was quiet and ragged. “I was there. The things you did killed my friends. You made me have to kill people, too. And I’m not sure which of those two things is harder for me to live with.”
Harrier glanced sideways at Tiercel, surprised and wary. His friend’s face was changed, and the changes had come so slowly and gradually that Harrier had never noticed them before. He’d just gone on thinking of Tiercel as being the same boy he’d ridden out of Armethalieh with a year ago. But that wasn’t who Tiercel had been for a while. Grief, and fear, the things he’d lost and the things he’d done, had etched themselves into Tiercel’s face like the marks of ph
ysical pain, and suddenly Harrier wondered what Tiercel saw when he looked at him.
“Then you know that I cannot face Saravasse with such a burden upon my heart,” Bisochim said, finally turning to face them.
“I know you were tricked by the Dark,” Tiercel said patiently. “But before there were Men at all, dragons chose to Bond and die so that they could fight for the Light. It isn’t fair for you to take Saravasse’s chance to fight for the Light away from her now. I know that Ancaladar would . . . would have forgiven me for anything I did, whether I was sorry I’d done it or not, and Saravasse will forgive you. Because you are sorry.”
“And the longer you wait, the more she’ll have to forgive you for,” Harrier interrupted harshly. “Because you might be standing around here thinking about how sorry you are that you were tricked, but that thing you let loose is out there somewhere, and it isn’t sorry to be free, and I don’t know what its plans are, but if we’re very lucky they involve hiding.”
Tiercel gave him a look that was a combination of hurt and indignation, but Harrier knew he was doing the right thing. They could either spend hours trying to persuade Bisochim to do what they needed him to do, or they could find out right now for sure that he wouldn’t. It was morning, and every minute wasted talking was a minute in which Zanattar could decide that this wasn’t “Wildmage business” after all—or just decide to come up and see what was going on—or in which Ahairan could come back to finish what she started.
“Your power is not great enough to withstand her,” Bisochim said, turning his back and starting to walk away.
Harrier rushed forward and grabbed his arm, dragging him to a stop. “Weren’t you listening yesterday?” he demanded. “That’s why you’re going to the Elven Lands! You’re taking Tyr there so he can ask them to send Elven Mages after your Demon. Tyr’s going because the Elves like him. You’re going because it’s your dragon. Call her. Now.”
For a moment, staring into Bisochim’s eyes, Harrier thought Bisochim would refuse. Or explain again about his unworthiness. Or just strike him dead. Instead he bowed his head and sighed.
The Phoenix Transformed Page 17
