Cordimancy

by Hardman, Daniel

  “I’m not exaggerating!” Gorumim shouted, apparently even more incensed by what the osipi was saying. “Everything depends on that reaper curse. It should have worked. It did work, for a moment. I swear I felt her heart stop beating. But then it started again, and even my blood magic couldn’t touch it. What could stand against blood magic?”

  “Magic isn’t all the plan,” said one of the golden men. “Sooner or later, it’s our kitars that’ll taste the raja’s blood—and our blades are sharp, no matter whose heart beats back in Noemi.”

  Gorumim shook his head impatiently. “How foolish or craven do you think I am? You think I would watch my family be butchered, my father’s throne usurped, and that I would take a new name and serve his murdering replacements for two centuries just because I’m waiting for you to save me?”

  He spat in scorn. “You stupid pup! You might be the greatest quiver of ahu the world has ever known, and it won’t make a shred of difference unless I can get you to the palace! You know how long I searched before I found a way in? Before I realized that Noemi sits among mountains called ‘the Crown’, and that destroying it would be perfect kindling for the fire we have to start to destroy the raja himself?”

  “We’ll fight our way in, if we have to. Even at ten to one, we can make it.”

  Gorumim blinked, allowing silence to provide a rebuttal. “Hashkasi fatmokish,” he hissed. “Tenuso xalamúshopihm!”

  “More demonstrations of how dangerous you are?” sneered the osipi warrior. “The scum who night-caught these children might panic at your pretend pet wizard, but we won’t. I don’t care how much magic you know. I don’t care if you’ve figured out some way to keep your white hair and be your own wizard. You’re a clan brother, not my cacique, and I say your plan puts too much trust in mumbo jumbo.” He fingered the ivona on his neck.

  “So kill me,” demanded Gorumim. “Right now. I challenge you, mighty ahu.”

  The osipi looked shocked. He glanced at the circle of diminutive warriors. One—a leader of some kind—nodded to give permission. Still the warrior hesitated.

  “Fight!” Gorumim urged. “You think you can take ten men in the Royal Guard? I say you can’t even make it past one.” He spit again, this time directly at his adversary.

  And then, in the time it took Kinora to blink, the osipi struck. One moment he was wiping spittle from his cheek. The next, a golden arm blurred, and silver flashed as a dagger streaked toward Gorumim’s throat.

  Blue sparks leapt from the blade as it swerved away from Gorumim and dropped into the dirt. Kinora felt her skin prickle. The air sizzled; she caught a whiff of ozone.

  Gorumim laughed—but even as the dagger fell, he leapt away so fast that the sound seemed to emanate from empty air. A whirlwind of flashing arms and bodies moved back and forth across the road. When the two men separated a few moments later, both were breathing heavily, and the osipi had a long crimson slash across one cheek.

  “Did you think the old ahu that I fought, all those years ago, exaggerated my speed in your clan lore?” Gorumim asked. “Did you think I became one of the People without earning that status? Did you think I’m just another white-haired sata?”

  “You cheat!” growled the osipi, as blood trickled down his chin and dripped into the grass. From somewhere, he’d produced a second dagger; now he shifted it into his other hand and made a half-hearted feint. “The People don’t use magic as a shield.”

  Like a convulsion, the duel resumed, and for a dozen heartbeats, limbs met, intertwined, and flew apart too rapidly to distinguish. More sparks flew. Dust rose. Then Gorumim’s arms slowed for an instant, the osipi cartwheeled through the air like a rag doll, and a branch cracked as golden skin collided with a tree over Kinora’s head.

  The osipi crashed to the ground, lay dazed for a moment, then groaned and began to bring his knees underneath him. Kinora’s horse shied.

  “You’re missing the point, brother,” said Gorumim, circling around the wagon where the wolves—unnaturally—remained asleep. “I’m fast, and I’m a good fighter, but I would never claim to be your equal in the dance. Not by myself.” He knelt by the warrior, who was still on his hands and knees, fighting for balance, and pushed the point of his blade into the skin between the man’s shoulder blades. “Of course, I’m not by myself, as you’ve no doubt discovered. Do you yield?”

  The osipi froze. The ring of golden warriors, now dotted with uniformed human soldiers who’d left their horses to observe the fight, watched impassively.

  “I said, do you yield?”

  Kinora saw a bead of blood forming at the tip of the knife.

  “I yield,” the osipi muttered. “But I still say the magic wasn’t fair.”

  Gorumim rocked back on his heels, stood up, extended a hand, and waited until his opponent looked up. Then he lifted the smaller man to his feet. His expression remained intense, but the fight seemed to have blunted his anger.

  “You’re right. The magic isn’t fair. But that’s what you’ll be up against if I don’t complete the symbol that I started.” He gestured toward the leader of the osipi. “Even Luim will not get past it.”

  “Every shield has a weakness,” muttered another osipi.

  Gorumim’s face darkened again. “I am telling you, attacking the raja is a waste of time unless the enchantments around the walls of the palace, and around him, are down.”

  He drew an oval in the dust with his toe. “Tónume lives in a castle with walls taller than a tree and as thick as this road. And that’s just the inner walls. There’s a barbican, murder holes, all kinds of insidious surprises. He’s surrounded by guards who are fearless, flawlessly conditioned, and superbly disciplined. I ought to know—I trained them myself.” His boot traced other circles outside the first. “But what really keeps him safe is layer upon layer of enchantment, added by generations of the best wizardry that money could buy. You think it’s hard to slip a knife past a little spell that I cast, off the cuff, the moment before a fight? Try worming your way through magic that the most talented lips in the world have studied and planned and reinforced every day for a hundred fifty years.”

  Several of the osipi were glancing at the warrior who acted as their leader, as if asking for him to serve as spokesman. The man measured the audience with his eyes, unfolded his arms, and stepped forward.

  “They need to know the rest, Gorumim. They’ll keep second-guessing until they understand. You can’t pact the clan and then only scrap-feed them.”

  Gorumim sighed. “The enchantments are much more subtle that just simple physical shields. If that’s all we were up against, I would have ended this the year I got to the palace, with a few drops of the right poison. Or I could have placed some traitors in the Royal Guard, and staged a coup when the time was right. Or I could have left sickness on the raja’s pillow, or used scores of other methods to take the throne.

  “No. Among other things, the enchantments require absolute loyalty to the raja and his family. You cannot pass those walls without a true and undying love for our monarch burning in your heart, unless you’re bound for the dungeon. You cannot intend him harm. You cannot plot against him; you can’t even be an unwitting pawn in a plot against him. Even the rabble at the outer gates spend their days muttering praises rather than begging for bread. Why do you think Zufa has seen no patricide, no royal intrigue in living memory? All the raja has to do is invite people to the palace, and imprison anyone unwilling to come. Every member of the household staff, every last guard and kitchen serving girl is vigilant and ready to give their life in an instant to preserve the current order.”

  “But you’ve lived there...”

  “And I’ve served. Loyally. Like I said, I trained the raja’s guards, and I did it with utmost skill and dedication. The day that I walked up to the gates and offered my sword in Fodende’s service, a true love for his dynasty burned in my heart; I would have died gladly at his request. And that fealty has only grown as the years have passed.”

>   The osipi seemed nonplussed, and Gorumim chuckled.

  “The look on your faces says it all. All those spell casters, working so hard for all those years. So smug. So sure their art would keep their precious tyrant safe. Yet here I am, hating Tónume more than ever. Want to know how I beat them? Want to know how nineteen of my clan brothers are going to topple the best-protected raja the world has ever known?”

  He leaned against the wagon with the sleeping wolves, enjoying the interest in his audience.

  “So often, it’s the obvious that you don’t see. Where are we now, while I’m talking treason? Not at the palace, you notice.” Gorumim gestured to some of the human soldiers. “Ask the men I’ve brought on this mission; each of them has spent their career out on the border. You see, the enchantments won’t let an enemy approach the raja, but they have no power over enemies who keep their distance. So I did a little magic of my own—removed just enough memories, added just enough artificial ones—to turn myself into an impassioned royalist, to strip all doubt and hatred from my heart and leave me ga-ga over Fodende. I wasn’t just hiding how I felt—I really loved him. Then I strolled up to the gates and became his right-hand man, and worked with all my heart to serve him.

  “And whenever I rode out on the raja’s errands, I would come to my senses and nearly vomit in disgust that I was lackey to a usurper who wasn’t even worthy to lick my boots. Every time, I wanted to take my sword and turn around, and storm the gates and rive out the heart of the man whose colors I carried. And every time, I held my course. On each return trip, I reapplied my own spell and became another person.

  “It was bitter. I remember when Fodende’s son Taxo died. I stood at his pyre and cried, and the whole realm bore witness. The taste of those tears, and the thought that I shed them in public, still sickens me. Later that month, as I crossed the southern range of the enchantments on a journey, I wept again, but this time it was hatred and frustration. An entire lifetime had come and gone, and I’d spent it in the service of the family that killed my father. Fodende had eluded me—consumption took him a few years after I arrived—but I’d promised myself I would stick Taxo like a pig and laugh as he perished. Instead, I’d let fifty years slip through my fingers, and mourned his passing!

  “I almost gave up, then. I’d found a way to be my own spy, by killing the truest part of my soul whenever I entered the palace. But once near the raja, my loyalty was iron. I could not bend. I didn’t even want to!

  “As captain of the Royal Guard, I filled a journal with notes about my defensive strategies, and sometimes I would take it with me as I left the palace. When I came to my senses, I would study it, hoping to glean ideas. Usually, this was an exercise in frustration, but on that night after Taxo’s death, at my lowest point of despair, some words jumped off the page: ‘I am gratified to report that another spell now guards the blood of the crown.’”

  Gorumim paused in his narrative and surveyed the circle of men surrounding him. “Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?” growled one of the osipi.

  “The seeds of our victory,” Gorumim whispered. “And the reason for Noemi. ‘Blood of the crown...’

  “I had despaired that I lacked the power to overcome the enchantments of the raja’s wizards. But when I read those words, I realized that the smallest spark can burn down the mightiest forest, if it only has the right kindling.”

  Now Gorumim looked over his men’s heads, to the children that whimpered on horseback. Kinora felt her skin crawl. The girl behind her on the saddle clutched her ribs with fingers as tight as claws.

  “You’ve seen a little demonstration of blood magic,” he whispered to his audience, while his eyes bored into Kinora’s. “That was prepared in haste. With blood from adults, from nowhere special. Without any particular symbolism. And it still kindled a reaper curse that shook the mountains and stole your breath.” He smiled, ever so slowly, and his eyes narrowed. “Imagine what a hundred years of preparation can kindle with unsullied, young blood—blood that has not yet committed its potential to any prong of the triple-forked path—blood ripe with fear and despair—the last trickle of lifeblood from the heart of the Crown that we just crushed. Can you guess what fire from that blood might do with the forest of enchantments protecting Tónume’s palace?”

  Kinora realized that she was not breathing. She could feel a wild thumping in her chest. Gorumim continued to hold her gaze until she felt a wave of dizziness flood her body.

  Finally his eyes dropped back to his adult audience.

  “I’ve been crafting this magic since your great grandparents were pups, and when I say my plans require no survivors from the Crown, I mean just that. Am I clear?” He looked at the osipi leader.

  The golden warrior nodded.

  “Good. Now go wake up the oreni. I have a job for my favorite wolf pack.”

  18

  reversal ~ Toril

  Toril made it through two switchbacks before he turned around. By then rational thinking had penetrated the anger knotting his gut.

  Barely.

  No hoofbeats from the old couple or the priest had sounded at his back. He’d listened for them, but been too proud to look over his shoulder, or even to glance downhill at each pivot in the switchbacks, to see who might be following.

  Nobody, that’s who.

  Of course Malena wouldn’t have changed her mind.

  They were all going to charge off into the wilderness on a fool’s errand.

  It was a losing proposition for everyone—the children, who stood almost no chance of rescue; the soldiers headed to a battle that was worse than unnecessary; the families of the men who would die…

  Following Malena would be a disaster for the reputation of Hasha, for the parijan, and for Toril, personally. He’d be demonstrating a total lack of judgment, a willful disregard for the wellbeing of the clan, a cavalier intransigence in dealing with Gorumim and the raja.

  He’d told Vasari that only Malena’s imminent death kept him from putting an end to Rovin’s stupid warmongering. He’d said he wasn’t afraid of confronting his rival.

  And now he was supposed to run in the opposite direction? Nobody would see altruism in that course...

  Besides, if Malena was right about her sister being among the missing children, then what his wife wanted would further endanger her, as well.

  In a day or a week, when they’d definitively failed, would Malena turn around and blame him for listening to her?

  Would he be able to forgive himself?

  Why couldn’t Malena set aside her own preconceived notions long enough to consider the possibility that he had the same goal she did, and that his judgment was worth respecting?

  A little voice in Toril’s head picked up on that last thought, and repeated his words dripping with irony. Had he been willing to set aside his preconceived notions? Or was he just as dismissive of his spouse’s reasoning as she had been?

  What if Malena was right—Sotalio was a trap, and the children had to be rescued now or never?

  “Sometimes I get these feelings,” she’d said...

  But how could he single-handedly fight off or outwit a whole band of the same savage men who’d just massacred everyone in Noemi?

  During his fosterage, he had been well trained in weapons and horsemanship, and he’d drilled and bunked with guardsmen. More recently, he’d served as a lieutenant to his father’s men, gone out patrolling for months at a stretch, slept under the stars and lived off crude rations plus what he could hunt or scavenge. He wasn’t soft or inexperienced.

  But he was just one man. No magic anymore. How much could he do with only the old couple and a vulnerable young woman to help him?

  Abruptly, his mind flooded with thoughts of birds and his mother.

  He’d been four or five, perhaps. Playing in back of the stable, he’d discovered a swallow’s nest tucked in the eaves. Two speckled fledglings had tumbled out onto hard-packed dirt below. They were too scrawny for first flight,
their feathers not yet mature—and the long fall had killed one. It lay motionless in the dappled sunlight of a spring morning, tufts of baby feather on the brow about its glassy eye.

  Its companion kicked fitfully, its beak opening and shutting as it pushed at the dust with one leg.

  Stubby fingers working as gently as he could manage, Toril scooped it up, soft warmth filling his hands. He could feel the racing throb of a heartbeat on one palm.

  He had no memory of deliberation—only of short legs racing across the inner patio and up the stairs, driven by a child’s faith and worry. He remembered bursting in on his mother, who was deep in conference with the head steward and a uniformed stranger that Toril had not seen before. The adults stood clustered around a table, studying a scroll and a pair of open ledgers. They looked up in surprise as the door swung open and banged the wall.

  “I found a baby bird,” he said breathlessly. “It’s hurt.”

  His mother glanced at her companions, then smiled and beckoned him forward. “Let’s see.”

  Half an hour later—after she’d probed the bone of the motionless wing and leg, and sent him to collect bugs for food, and found some scraps of yarn to build a soft bed, and asked him if he had a name for his tiny charge—he realized that he and his mother were alone in the room.

  “Where did the steward go?” he asked. “And that other man?”

  His mother shrugged. “Got tired of waiting, I suppose.”

  “Do you need to go find them?” Toril-the-child realized that he’d flouted a standing rule by charging into the room. Both of his parents took clan business seriously; they’d made it clear that he was not to interrupt when official visitors needed attention. Had he embarrassed her? Was he in trouble?