Tournament of Witches

by Jack Massa

  “That cannot be,” she whispered. “It must not be.”

  Twenty-Six

  Clorodice woke before down, possessed by a horrible vision. She dressed at once and roused Elani and the two other apprentices who presently occupied guest rooms in her mansion. Clorodice ordered a team harnessed to her carriage, and the four witches rode along the canal as the sun rose over the city. Leaving the carriage at a gate of the necropolis, they hurried on foot to the hidden sanctuary. What greeted them at the entrance there confirmed Clorodice’s worst fears.

  Caspia, another witch of the circle, was supposed to be on watch duty below. Instead, she sat on the ground before the stairs, shuddering, her face buried in her hands. Bending beside her, Clorodice used a charm to calm the young witch and make her speak.

  “Horrible. Horrible. It is free. I just barely managed to seal the door. But it—he said he would not eat me. He said he will speak to you, my lady.”

  “So be it.” Clorodice straightened.

  Setting her face to a grim mask, she started down the steps.

  “But, my lady!” Elani cried. “The danger …”

  Clorodice glanced over her shoulder, considering. The other two apprentices, warrior witches, carried swords as well as daggers in their belts. Their hands were on the hilts, ready to draw.

  “No,” she decided. “This is for me to face alone. Stay here, I command you.”

  Hands folded in sleeves, she descended the steps and marched down the processional tunnel. A key lay on floor where the panicked Caspia had left it. Clorodice picked it up and turned it in the air. The iron door groaned as it sank into the earth.

  The carnage inside made bile rise from her stomach. Clorodice had sensed the phingarr growing stronger, but had never expected he could break out of the light-cage. The second apprentice on duty had paid for this mistake with her life. A torn robe and bloody undergarments littered the floor—along with crushed and splintered bones. The skull, with bits of hair and flesh still attached, was perched on the top of the writing table where the phingarr sat. Calmly, the monster used a talon to turn the page of an ancient book.

  He spoke without looking up, the voice hoarse and soft, something between a growl and a hiss. “Lady Clorodice. We must have words.”

  The former Admiral Pheng was now fully transfigured: broad sloping head with fanged, ape-like lower jaw; massive shoulders; long arms ending in huge, clawed hands. The legs appeared short only in relation to the elongated, furry torso. Standing erect, the creature was nearly seven feet tall.

  Visiting here almost every day, Clorodice had watched the changes, reveled in the increasing power she could draw from the being. But now the project had unraveled disastrously.

  She raised her hands in a warding gesture. “I am listening.”

  The yellow eyes came up to gaze at her. “Now you are listening. You never thought it would be necessary. You have enjoyed sucking the power through me. But you never imagined I was keeping part of it, that I could use this vile magic myself.”

  “True. You have surprised me. What is it you want now?”

  “Revenge.”

  Her spine straightened, “You do not frighten me. Whatever force you may be able to summon is nothing to the power I now possess.”

  “Perhaps. But you also need me, as a source of that power—even as I need you. So for now, at least, we must reach an accord. I want revenge on the others, my uncle and cousins who betrayed me, and on that witch Amlina and her allies, who humiliated me in Fleevanport and led to my disgrace.”

  Clorodice let out her breath through clenched teeth. “Duke Pheng and his sons are my allies. I need them to accomplish my goals—at least for now. As for Amlina, she is the very reason I was tempted to create your present shape. But the protections around her are strong. The best way to revenge yourself is to defeat her claim to win the Cloak of the Two Winds. Once the contest for the Cloak is over and she is beaten, she will be weaker, more easily taken.”

  The ogre showed a grimace. “There are also others, her friends—the drell witch, the Iruk girl who used the Cloak against my troops.”

  She touched her chin, considering. “Those may be more easily slain, if that is your desire.”

  “Not just slain, devoured! I wish to eat them alive and feel their pain and terror. That is the revenge I seek.”

  Clorodice suppressed a gasp.

  “Meantime, I must have other food.” The phingarr sneered. “And not just suckling pigs. My hunger for human flesh is insatiable!”

  Something had gone wrong with the ensorcellment. By now, as Clorodice understood the process, the phase of needing meat and blood should have ended, the creature, once transformed, living purely on the energies flowing up from the Deepmind. But the archaic texts were cryptic, and in ancient times human life was cheap. Perhaps slaves were used as a perpetual source of nourishment.

  “I cannot have you devouring my apprentices,” she told him.

  “Then find me another source!”

  The Keeper of the Keys sighed. It would be dangerous, but there was certainly an abundance of available human flesh in Minhang. The city was overcrowded with commoners—worthless people polluting the place with their indolence and vice. To kidnap and murder even such people as those was a crime, to be sure. But perhaps it was a sacrifice she must make for the higher good.

  The phingarr must remain her tool, at least until her new power was solidified and her worthy goals accomplished. After that, she could dispose of the ogre—unless of course she had found a way to make him a compliant slave.

  

  Third Summer in Minhang the days were sunny, the weather as warm as the Iruks had ever known. When the mates finished their morning arms training their garments were drenched in sweat. They would march immediately to the bathhouse to soak themselves in cold water.

  In the afternoons, they typically went separate ways. Karrol and Brinda might hike along the shores of Perfect Light Lake, sometimes marching all the way to the lower slopes of Noble Grandfather Mountain. This land was an imperial game preserve, although hunting there was forbidden. Sometimes Lonn and Draven went with them, but more often they would just relax in the shade, lying in hammocks in the garden or on lounge chairs by the lakeside.

  When not with Lonn, Glyssa spent much of her time indoors, practicing the meditations and spiritual exercise she had learned from Amlina. For the most part, these helped her maintain a patient and serene demeanor. Still, at times she seemed disturbed by vague premonitions. She spoke little of this, claiming that her witchsight had disclosed no definite visions, only uneasy feeling that might amount to nothing.

  Like Eben, Glyssa also spent hours with Kizier, either conversing about the history and society of Larthang, or visiting the reading room in the Tuan’s library. Glyssa was slowly learning to read, with the aid of Kizier and Ting Fo, who was still assigned to the Iruks as interpreter and guide. But while Glyssa labored over simple texts, Eben was now reading books of poetry and the writings of Larthangan sages. For him, both the language and the philosophy of Larthang had become a passion.

  In the evenings, the mates might attend a concert or party, or take a swan boat out on the lake. When these diversions began to bore them, the Iruks took to wandering beyond the palace walls, visiting the entertainment district on the north canal. After taking supper in a tavern, they would enjoy the entertainments: puppet plays, street musicians, acrobats, and jugglers.

  On occasion, Eben, Karrol, and Draven visited one of the floating brothels to enjoy the attentions of perfumed “flower women.” Brinda had no interest in physical love, and Lonn and Glyssa were bonded together and shared their bed. Draven claimed these visits were simply a diversion, but Eben wondered if he might also be using them to distance himself from Amlina. As to Karrol, she professed to enjoy herself well enough, though she found the flower women generally a little too soft and cloying for her tastes. Eben, cheerfully drunk, felt no such qualms.

  Still, afterward he
always experienced an odd sadness. Much as he hated to admit it, he still nursed an infatuation for Trippany the drell. He had not seen her since their one brief encounter in the palace garden. But the more he tried to forget her, the more he longed for her. Although Eben scorned himself for such feeble sentimentality, he came to believe the winged lady had captured his heart.

  One evening he stood in the crowd with his mates on a street across from the canal watching a puppet play. Back lit by a lantern, the shadows of the puppets moved across a silken screen. One character, a fat magistrate and adherent to the Thread of Virtue, scolded the audience for their vices—especially the vice of attending puppet plays. Meanwhile, to the crowd’s delight, his young wife was being seduced in the next room by a roguish young scholar.

  After the show, the klarnmates were ready to return to home. Eben, in a melancholy mood, tried to convince Karrol and Draven to visit a nearby brothel, the House of Butterfly Delights. When they declined, he told the mates to go on without him.

  “Are you sure we should separate?” Glyssa asked with concern.

  “Of course.” Eben threw out a hand. “I am a full-fledged warrior, mate.”

  “You are also on the verge of stupidly drunk,” Karrol pointed out.

  Eben scoffed. “Oh, I will be fine! I have my knife, and I’ll make it a quick visit. The evening is still early. I promise to come home before the thieves and ruffians come out.”

  Reluctantly, the mates left him. He purchased a small jug of berry wine and strolled down to the canal. But as he neared the flower-festooned barge that was the House of Butterfly Delights, he had second thoughts. The lights, music, and laughter emanating from the brothel suddenly felt less than inviting.

  With a dismal sigh, he plopped down on the barrier wall, letting his feet dangle over the gleaming water. As he swigged the wine, he thought back to the puppet play. The puppets were made of colored paper, moved by bamboo rods. But it was only their shadows projected on the screen that the audience saw. Eben recalled a centuries-old poem, wherein the poet compared human life to the puppet plays, the world of appearances nothing but fleeting projections, while that which truly moved the images remained hidden behind some fathomless screen.

  Another drink, and Eben’s thoughts revolved inevitably onto Trippany. He muttered one of his unfinished verses:

  Bright lady with wings,

  If you be but a shadow:

  More lovely, more fleeting than most …

  A new, vivid light reflected on the water. Eben’s head swung to the side and he nearly spilled the jug. A ball of blue radiance had appeared behind his shoulder. As he watched, it expanded and Trippany stepped onto the pavement. Her wings stilled and she grinned at him.

  “Hello, my friend.”

  “Where have you been?” Eben’s tone was more surly than he’d meant.

  Frowning, she sat down beside him, her slim legs extending over the water. “At the House of the Deepmind. Working hard, you know.”

  Eben’s glance traveled from her face to her belled slippers, then to the wine jug in his hand. “I have missed you,” he confessed.

  She laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Ah, my dear. You are my hearty warrior. Who would have guessed you are also so sensitive?”

  “I never have been before.” Eben took a generous swallow of the sweet wine.

  When he lowered the jug, Trippany was smiling at him, her black eyes sparkling. “I enjoyed our dalliance—although it was perhaps reckless of me. You must understand, Eben, that I am a deepshaper and dedicated to my training and duty.”

  Eben glowered down at the water. “I understand little of Larthang,” he admitted. “And you least of all, lovely lady with wings.”

  She giggled and leaned close, placing her arm around his back. “I have heard some of your poems about me.”

  “How can that be?” He often ran verses through his mind, but only spoke them aloud when he was alone.

  Trippany blushed. “It may be wrong of me, but I have listened to you from the spaceless place. I never intended to spy, but I hear you sometimes in my mind and then I follow the thread. This is easy because we have bonded in physical love, you see?”

  Eben’s mouth hung slack as he tried to ponder the implications.

  “When I hear your poems about me, it is hard not to listen. I hope you are not angry?”

  “No. How could I be?” He set down the wine jug and put his arm around her waist. The sensation of her closeness filled him with contentment. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “I hope …” he said. “Well, I wish … Might we have another dalliance some time?”

  Her delicate body quivered with laughter. “Perhaps, when I am reckless again. But not tonight. It is getting late, and you are inebriated. Shall I walk you home?”

  “Very well,” Eben sighed. “But let’s make it a long, slow walk.”

  Twenty-Seven

  As Third Summer moved into its second month, Amlina was deeply immersed in her preparations for the Tournament. She rose at dawn each morning and spent the first two hours of the day in her austere cell, practicing wei-shen, the art of deepseeing. Gazing into a mirrored paper globe suspended from the ceiling, she would empty her mind and let impressions flow in from the Deepmind. After a time, she would summon specific visions—faraway places, faces she knew, events remote from her in space and time.

  After breakfast, she moved on to weng-lei, the art of magical combat. In an exercise yard adjacent to one of the many wings of the House of the Deepmind, she would practice in duels with other witches—sending a blunt wooden dagger flying through the air, dodging and casting aside missiles sent toward her body from many angles at once, thrusting with her mind to weaken the strength and will of an opponent.

  Afternoons she worked on barang-xing, the trinketing art, and jai-dah, the art of formulation. For her trinket, she fabricated a necklace of chased silver inset with garnets. Into each garnet she poured a design so that, as she touched each stone with her fingertip, a song vibrated in the air—ancient Larthangan music of harp, flute, and drum. The trinket’s concept was simple, but after her experience at the examination, when her moonstone fillet was downgraded because it was fashioned using Tathian techniques, Amlina wanted to be scrupulously certain to avoid any suggestion of foreign influence.

  She hoped her formulation would prove more spectacular. For many hours she fashioned this design, decided upon after consultation with Melevarry. Built up as a mental construct, the formulation would be released at the Tournament, creating a vision the entire crowd would see—a vast flight of birds moving across the sky.

  Finally, at the end of each day, back in her cell, she practiced for the Tournament’s final event quon-xing, the pure shaping. This art involved casting mental force to create effects in a moment. What effects might be demanded in the contest was not disclosed in advance. Amlina could only prepare by building her mental powers. For hours before sleeping, she moved objects through the air. Mirrored balls, feathered desmets, tiny beads: she arranged them in patterns, set them looping or spinning. Before going to sleep, she would cast a final thought to extinguish her bedside lamp.

  Absorbed by this constant routine of witchery, she felt her powers magnified as never before. Yet, as the Tournament neared, a restless anxiety gnawed at the back of her mind. Her confidence, so high after her vision at the purification rite, began to ebb. Frightening dreams troubled her sleep. At times, it reminded her of the dark void, the rapacious despair that she thought she had vanquished. Yet this felt different too—as though it were not her inner mind but some external forces deliberating sapping her confidence. Probing for the source of these impressions, Amlina perceived only impenetrable darkness.

  Then, four days before the start of the Tournament, her routine was interrupted. A courier had come from the palace—summoning Amlina to appear before the Tuan at once.

  Wondering what this could mean, Amlina changed into fresh garments and followed the messenger throug
h the gates of Ting Ta Roo. A chariot waited at the base of the steps, drawn by a pair of tali. As soon as Amlina climbed aboard, the courier snapped the reins and the giant, cat-like creatures bounded forward. Amlina had to grip the rail tightly to keep her balance as the vehicle careened up the broad streets.

  In the late afternoon, the chariot drove through the gates of the Celestial Palace. Down a wide processional avenue, at the far side of a grand plaza, the chariot rolled to a stop in front of the Castle of the Golden Land. A four-story edifice of ancient redwood inlaid with gold and jade, this was the Tuan’s most sacred hall—regarded as the ritual center of Larthang. For all the time she had spent in the palace, Amlina had only seen the castle from a distance. What could it mean that the Tuan had ordered her here?

  Forcing herself to walk with steady dignity, she followed the courier up the steps and past tall, gold-plated doors guarded by imperial soldiers. The courier stopped and pointed her through a vestibule. Amlina marched into an airy hall—and was jolted by a flash of recognition.

  She had been here before, but not in her physical body. By the tall red pillars and shiny, white floor, she recognized the hall from her vision—the place she had met the Spirit of the Land and the ancient witch Eglemarde.

  On a dais at the far end of the chamber, a cluster of attendants surrounded a tall seat. This was the famous Dark Bright Throne, whose shiny black surface displayed an ever-shifting flow of iridescent colors. The throne was aligned to the exact center of the hall, the palace, and the city. Behind it, in the shadowed light of late afternoon, a perfectly-straight perspective showed a view of courts and gardens culminating in Perfect Light Lake and the distant peak of Honored Grandfather Mountain.

  Looking tiny on the huge throne, the Tuan was dressed in white raiment. He and his attendants cast sober glances as Amlina approached.

  “Greetings, esteemed Amlina, I regret the necessity of interrupting your preparations for the Tournament of Witches. There is a grave matter we must discuss.” The Tuan’s voice and demeanor were far from the cheerful child Amlina had come to know. Rather, he spoke with solemn dignity, the avatar of all the Tuans before him.