Wings of Omen tw-6

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  "Ischade?"

  Illyra turned, recognizing neither the name nor the hoarse voice whispering it. Her Sight touched on a ragged beggar.

  "Why do you walk tonight?" the man asked.

  As she had Seen with Dubro, she Saw with the beggar-king-and much, as well, about the necromant, Ischade, he had mistaken her for. She stepped back from him, and he from her, although in the darkness he could not have seen her but only sensed that she could see something in him that even Ischade was blind to. The new aspects of Sight were quickly becoming familiar to her; she continued on her way without needing to mold her Vision of the beggar-king into a raven to be rid of it. And when the watch at the barracks challenged her, she used what she had learned to Look at the torchlit face until the man, cowed by his own utter nakedness, stood aside and let her into the common room.

  "Cythen?" Illyra called, knowing the woman was in the smoky room.

  '"Lyra?" The mercenary rose from a group of men and, putting a firm, authoritative arm on the S'danzo's shoulders, pulled her into an alcove. '"Lyra, what are you-"

  Illyra Looked into the other's face. Cythen cringed, then her anger flared, and this time it was Illyra who looked aside.

  "Are you all right?" Cythen demanded.

  "I must see Walegrin."

  "His watch starts at dawn; he just went upstairs to sleep."

  "I've got to see him, now."

  Cythen tugged at a worn amulet. "'Lyra, are you all right?"

  "I've got to see my brother, Cythen," Illyra's voice trembled with Sight and from her determination that she would speak with Walegrin before dawn shed light on Zip's altar. She waited in the officer's upper room while Cythen roused an unhappy Walegrin. He came into the room as a green-eyed death-wraith full of threats and fury, but she met him calmly with the Sight in her eyes.

  "I need your help," she informed her stunned, superstitious half-brother. "My son, whom you have made a Rankan citizen, has been stolen."

  "The guard patrols the Street of Red Lanterns; it is as safe as the palace itself." He defended the ability of his men even as he bound a bronze studded greave to his shin. "Did you report it to them first? Have they searched?"

  "There is nothing for them to do."

  Walegrin set the second greave aside and stared at her. "Illyra, what's wrong with you?"

  Now that she was with him, Illyra found that the Sight was not so clear. She Saw him carrying her message, but she couldn't See him bringing the guard to Zip's altar to destroy it. "There was a young man who came to me this past afternoon with a story about an altar by the White Foal and the spirit of the Stormgod he sacrificed to there...."

  "Alton... sacrifice?" It was outlawed, but it happened.

  Illyra shook her head. "That young man-they call him Zip, usually-brought his filthy, unspeakable demon into my life. He touched me with it, and when I refused, it reached out to touch my son. Arton cries black tears."

  "Poison-Zip?" He had the other greave strapped on and was smiling as he pronounced the snipe's name. "We've needed something clean on that one. Something that wouldn't fan the fires higher. And Beysin women, some of them, can make cures in their blood. If they cure a Sanctuary child, then that will bring quiet, too-"

  Illyra hammered both fists on the table. Neither he nor the Sight would move as she wished. "You aren't listening to me! There's no poison in Arton's blood, Half-Brother. Spirits seek him. Godspirits raised on a White Foal altar. What could you do for Arton that I have not already done? What could bare-breasted Beysin women do while the spirit of a Stormgod sits on its altar, waiting for another chance? Destroy the altar; I'll save my son."

  Walegrin assessed her with one eye, then the other, and left the breastplate lying on the table. "Illyra, my men struggle to contain the Maze. There is more murder and intrigue in this town than one man can imagine, and you would have me stomp through the White Foal marsh, looking for a broken-down pile of stones. If it's only the altar you care about, then tell Dubro-he'll do it with his hammer."

  "I have not told Dubro."

  He raised an eyebrow, having believed that the pair had no secrets between them, and was about to ask more questions when she turned toward the fireplace.

  "I don't know why I've come to you for help." She turned and studied the room. "The Sight ends, and I don't know what to do now."

  "You can wait here," he said, almost kindly. "I'll make my report in the morning. Or, I'll guide you back to the Aphrodisia, and Arton and you can wait there."

  The silver clarity of Sight was gone and she could not, of course, guess when it might return. The preternatural confidence it had given her was fading. She had too many terrified childhood memories of the barracks to linger there, and so accepted his offer. Walegrin called Cythen and two others to be her escort. They each carried torches heavy enough to serve as weapons. Once, they were delayed by the sound of a fracas in a blind alley. "PFLS," Walegrin muttered as the combatants scattered but to Illyra, illiterate and Bazaar-bound, the expression made no sense.

  Myrtis welcomed the mercenaries with cups of fortified wine. Illyra escaped to the nursery where, as she expected even without the Sight, her son's condition had not changed. Dubro had taken the unconscious child from the cradle and was hiding the mite in his arms while Lillis, exhausted and worried beyond understanding by her brother's behavior, sat wild-eyed on the floor, clinging to Dubro's leg.

  "You have been following some S' danzo intuition?" Dubro asked with accusation.

  "I had thought Walegrin might help." Illyra let the cloak fall back from her shoulders. "He will try, though I'm not sure if he will help or hurt in the end. We'll pray it is enough."

  "Do you pray?" her husband asked as if speaking to a stranger.

  "To the one who wants our son-yes."

  In time the sky grew rosy, then bright blue. Arton grew no worse, though no better. Despite their anxiety, Illyra and Lillis both leaned against the smith and dozed. Those children who normally made a noisy shambles of the nursery before breakfast were bundled off to some distant part of the house, and the family waited in silent isolation.

  A black bird, not so great as the one Illyra had made of her Sight but undeniably real, cawed noisily outside the window. Illyra awoke and hoped it might be the Sight returning to her. Before she could know one way or the other, there was a furor in the hallways which ended with the appearance of the Hierarch of Vashanka, Molin Torch-holder, at the nursery entrance.

  "Illyra," the priest said, ignoring everyone else in the room. Not knowing any other response, Illyra knelt before him: the priest's power was real even if his god was not. "How is the child?"

  She shook her head and took Arton from Dubro's arms. "No better. He breathes, but no more than that. How do you know? Why are you here?"

  Molin gave a sardonic laugh. "I had not expected to be the one answering questions. I know because I make it a point to know what is going on in Sanctuary and to find the patterns by which it can be governed. You went to the garrison. You said your son had been 'taken.' You spoke of spirits and of the Stormgod, but you did not mention Vashanka. You wanted your brother to deal with the altar, but you were going to deal with rest.

  "They say you have the legendary S'danzo Sight. I'd like to know exactly what you've been Seeing." The priest did not seem surprised when Illyra's only response was to stare forlornly at the floor. "Well, then, let me convince you."

  He took her gently by the arm and guided her toward a tiny atrium where the rook was already perched in a tree. Dubro rose to follow them. Two temple mutes, armed with heavy spears, convinced him to remain with the children.

  "No one has betrayed you, Illyra, nor will betray you. Walegrin does not see the larger picture when he tells me the details, but you-you might see a picture even larger than my own. You have the Sight, Illyra, and you've looked at the Stormgod, haven't you?"

  "The S'danzo have no gods," she replied defensively.

  "Yes, but as you yourself have admitted, something ha
s touched your son, and that something is involved with known gods."

  "Not gods, godspirits-gyskourem."

  "Gyskourem?" Molin rolled the word across his tongue, and the rook tried its beak on the sound as well. "Spirits? Demonfolk? No, I don't think so, Illyra."

  She sighed and turned away, but spoke louder so he could still hear what no suvesh had heard before. "We have Seen the past as well as the future. Men begin the creation of gods. There is a hope, or a need; the gyskourem come, and then there is a god-until there is no hope or need anymore. When they begin, the gyskourem are like other men, or sometimes demonfolk are summoned as gyskourem, but when they are filled then they become gods truly and they are more powerful than any man or demon. The S'danzo do not hope or need, lest we call the gyskourem to us."

  "So Vashanka is not the son of Savankala and Sabellia. He is the hope and need of the first battles fought by the first Rankan tribes?" The priest laughed from some secret bemusement.

  "In a way. It could be so. That is the pattern, although it is very hard to see so far back as for a god such Vashanka," Illyra temporized. The man was Vashanki priest, and she was not about to tell him of the birth or death of his god.

  "But not so hard to see forward, I should think. My god has fallen on hard times, hasn't he, S'danzo?" Torchholder's tone was harsh and bitter, causing Illyra to turn to face him, though she feared for her life. "Don't pretend, S'danzo. You may have the Sight, but I was there. Vashanka was ripped from the pantheon. Ils was there, but I do not think that he or his kin can fill Vashanka's void. And there is a void, isn't there? A hope? A need? The Rankan Stormgod: the Might of Armies, the Maker of Victory, isn't here anymore."

  She nodded and picked nervously at the fringe of her shawl. "It has never happened before, I think. He was changing, growing, even when he was tricked and banished. There is a great web over Sanctuary, High Priest; it was there before Vashanka was banished, and it's still there now. There is much to be Seen and little to be understood." She spoke to him as she would any other querent and for a moment he looked properly chastened.

  "How much hope does it take, S'danzo? How much need? Can the god of one people usurp the devotion of another?" The priest seemed to ignore her then, digging deep into the hem of his sleeve, producing a sweetmeat for the rook, which flew tamely to his wrist for the treat. When Molin began again his voice was calm.

  "I came here with the Prince, thinking to build a temple. The talk in Ranke was of war with the Nisibisi, and it was not a good time for an architect-priest. I would rather lay the foundation for a temple than undermine the walls of a city. It should have been quiet. Vashanka's attention should have been drawn to the north with the war and the armies, but He was here, almost from the beginning, and I never understood that.

  "Now, the war goes on without victory. The troops are disheartened, rebellious, mutinous. They have slain the Emperor along with all of his family, and mine, which they could find. Now, the war belongs to Theron, and it goes no better for him, perhaps because it was not that the Emperor was a bad war-leader but because in a forgotten backwater of the Empire a Rankan god has been banished.

  "I've been left with a cesspool of a city to govern because no one else is interested or able. My temple was never built, and will not be built now. My Prince, the only legitimate heir to the Imperial throne, lives in perpetual innocence, and there are two thousand Beysin in Sanctuary, not counting snakes, birds, and fishermen, who are planning to wait here with their Empress, their gold, and their revolting customs until their goddess bestirs herself to win a war they couldn't win with their own hands and weapons back home!"

  His voice rose again, and it frightened the rook, which promptly bit the hand that fed it squarely between the thumb and forefinger.

  "Lately I've begun to understand that I will not be going back home," he said more softly, binding the wound with fabric from his sleeve. "Or, rather, I've been forced to accept that Sanctuary-of all the forsaken places in creation-is going to be my home until I die. I will not have my dream of dying in peace in the temple where I was born. Do the S'danzo think much of their birth-homes? I was born in the Temple of Vashanka in Ranke. My substance is one with that temple. Some part of me: my eyes, my heart, whatever, is as it was when I was born and belongs more to that temple than to me. But now, look, the bird bites me; blood flows and new skin is formed. Sanctuary skin, Illyra. For me it will always be a very small part, but for you- isn't Sanctuary within you even as the S'danzo Sight is within you?"

  He had drawn her in to look at his wound, and played her with his best arguments as he would have done had she been the Emperor himself. His eyes stared into hers.

  "Illyra, if you won't help me, then I can't help Sanctuary, and if I can't help Sanctuary, then it doesn't matter if you save your son. Use the Sight to look around you. There is hope, need; there is a great vacuum where Vashanka reigned "

  Illyra jerked away from him. "The S'danzo have no gods. It does not matter to us which of the gyskourem becomes the Gyskouras, the new god other men bow down to."

  "Before Vashanka was vanquished I made a grand ritual for Him, to consecrate his worship here, to establish Sanctuary in his eyes and, in truth, to control Him. A Feast of the Ten-Slaying and the Dance of Azuna. The girl was a slave trained in the temple in Ranke, and Vashanka was the Imperial Prince Kadakithis himself. It was, perhaps, the greatest of my offerings to the god, and my worst. The girl, remarkably, conceived, and a boychild was born not two weeks before... before Vashanka was lost. That child is" about the same age, I would guess, as your own son.

  "He is a strange child, much given to anger and ill-humor. His mother and the others who care for him assure me that he is no worse than any other child his age, but I am not so sure. They say he is lonely, but he rejects all the palace children brought to him. I think, perhaps, he has needed to choose his own companions-and then, this morning, I heard of your son..." He paused, but Illyra did not complete his sentence. "Shall I give you an old Ilsigi coin like the boy gave you yesterday? Do the S'danzo only speak to gold? Is your son to be the companion to Vashanka's last son? Is he the new god I must serve, or is he the Gyskouras of some other hope which I must destroy?"

  "Why do you ask these things?" Illyra repeated helplessly as the priest's words stirred the Sight within her.

  "I was high priest and architect for Vashanka. I am still high priest and architect for the Stormgod-but I must know whom I serve, Illyra. And, if I must, I must try again to bring the Stormgod into an understanding with his people. I could take your son out to that altar and make a sacrifice of him; I could bring him to the palace and raise him as the god's son instead of the one I have there now. Do you understand the choices I will have to make?"

  Illyra Saw the high priest's choices, all of them, as well as the gods watching nervously as gyskourem were drawn to Sanctuary's maelstrom of hope and need. The web of confusion she had Seen around the city was focused on the place where Vashanka had been and, for the moment, all other magic and intrigue were controlled by the hopes and needs which the emergent Stormgod must take into himself.

  She put her hands over her ears and was unaware of her own screaming. When she was aware of anything again she was lying in the dirt of the atrium and Myrtis's cool hands were holding a damp cloth to her forehead. Dubro was glaring down at the priest with mayhem in his eyes.

  "She is a strong woman," Torchholder informed the smith. "Stormgods do not choose weak messengers." He turned to Illyra. "I had not named Vashanka's last son; I had no name that was right for him. Now I think I shall make a naming ceremony for him and call him Gyskouras-at least until he chooses a different name for himself. And, Illyra, I think your son should be at that ceremony, don't you?" He summoned his servants with a snap of his fingers and left the atrium without formal farewells, the great rook shedding feathers as it struggled to clear the steep rooftops of the Aphrodisia.

  "What did I tell him?" Illyra asked, taking hold of Dub-ro's hand. "He isn't
taking Arton? I didn't say that, did I?"

  She would never surrender her son to the priest or the gods, not even if there was the silver of true Sight in Torch-holder's request. Dubro would never understand and, above all, the S'danzo did not acknowledge the interference of gods. They would leave the town, if they had to, sneaking out at night the way Shadowspawn and Moonflower's daughter had, since the Torch had already decreed that no one would leave Sanctuary without his permission.

  While she'd been with the priest, Myrtis had gotten the little boy to swallow some honeyed gruel, but when she put the child back in Illyra's arms the madam made it plain that she did not expect him to survive and, with the high priest showing such an interest, she certainly did not want him surviving or dying at the Aphrodisia.

  "We will take him with us," Dubro said simply, gathering up his daughter as well and leading the way out to the Street. They could not have remained much longer at the Aphrodisia in any event.

  Through years of labor Dubro and Illyra had amassed a small hoard of gold which they kept hidden where the stones of Dubro's forge became the outer wall of their homestead. But with the Beysib, and all the gold they brought with them, not even gold was as valuable as it had been and they could ill afford another day of idleness. A squall rose out of the harbor while they were walking, a sudden, damp inconvenience that should not have been remarkable in a seacoast town except that the raindrops striking Arton's face did not wash away his clouded tears but made them darker. Without saying why, Illyra clutched her son tighter and raced ahead through the storm-quieted Bazaar.

  It took several days, even for the gossips and rumor-mongers of Sanctuary, to discover the coincidences: The recurrent, violent squalls; Molin Torchholder's unprecedented visit to the Aphrodisia House; and the S'danzo child who cried silent, storm-colored tears. The story that someone had smuggled an unfriendly serpent into the Snake-Bitch Empress's bedchamber had lent itself easily to lewd embellishment, while the tale that half-rotted corpses were walking the back alleys of Downwind was more frightening. But when the fifth storm in as many days dumped hundreds of fish, some as large as a man's forearm, on the porch of Vashanka's still-unfinished temple, interest began, at last, to grow.