A knight-commander to the left spoke up. “Nael, any word on Lord Ghorn?”
“Not yet. He will come through though. The Gods will see to it.”
The vice-captain turned to spit on the floor. “The Forty-nine and all their bastards haven’t done a thing to stop these sorcerers yet. Why would they start now?”
The legate shook his head. “They have sent the magician. He will be their instrument.”
The obviously devout Nael paused to chew and swallow a large bite of bread, then looked around to include everyone.
“He has the strength of the Forty-nine in his fist. We have all seen it. He can destroy an entire legion in a single second!”
Another man down the table said quietly, “Praise be to all the gods.”
Murmurs passed along the table. Magic was alien, the Forty-nine a comforting familiarity.
A fugleman dashed suddenly into the dining room and shouted, “Lord Ghorn and the magician have been found!”
Ambivalent, Aerlon let himself be carried along by the general exodus. He supposed that he should feel grateful to Ghorn. The Prince Commander seemed like an able leader, and such would be decidedly needed if the Monks were to be defeated. However, the word that he had fallen into the sea with the young magician – that still struck him as such an odd word – and the skyraft –odder still – had not distressed Aerlon as it had many of the Mhajhkaeirii. The Plydyrii found himself unable to raise strong emotion of any sort except hatred for the Phaelle’n. That hatred scalded the nave of his soul without ceasing. He could feel its burn even now, branding his life with an irresistible demand for vengeance.
The group of officers rushed through the Palace and out into the huge, decorative garden that embraced the main entrance of the building that served as the center of power of The Greatest City in All the World. The once lustrous garden was in a terrible disarray; several troops of Mhajhkaeirii’n marines and legionnaires encamped the lawns and many of the flowers, shrubs, and ornamental trees had been trampled, cut down for firewood, or otherwise mangled. A low wall topped with gilded spikes and an equally gilded iron gate replete with the artistic curlicues and flourishes of a style not current for fifty years bordered the garden. A large group of men was at work reinforcing this totally inadequate defense and seemed little concerned with the former opulence of the garden. Several masons used canvas buckets to empty a reflective pool to mix mortar and a gang of carpenter’s apprentices stacked lumber on the intricate, multi-colored mosaic of a winding walk.
Aerlon trotted down the fanning white marble steps, looking for The Mountain – he had already learned that the marines and legionnaires referred reverently to Captain Mhiskva thus – amidst this jumbled expanse of confusion. He saw him immediately, head and shoulders above the crowd forming at the gate, and made his way there.
Ghorn was indeed present; half a dozen legionnaires competed to help him from the saddle of a bay mare. Another group, about a dozen large marines, surrounded – whether as protectors or guards seemed unclear -- the magician and a young woman wearing the hood of a Phaelle’n novitiate. It had the extra embroidery that marked her a Fraternal Sister, a term that Aerlon’s now dead legionnaires had taken to using in place of “whore.”
“Captain!” Lord Ghorn shouted above the hubbub. “What is our situation?”
The marine captain saluted, and then grinned broadly. “Welcome back, my lord! All is in hand. I have made a circuit of the Tertiary Wall and spoke with the lords of the defense. Our forces are arrayed as effectively as can be, under the circumstances. There is yet no sign of another attack.”
“Good. I want all the senior commanders or their representatives in conference within two hours.”
Aerlon hung back in the crowd as Ghorn and Mhiskva started toward the Palace entrance. Some fugleman called out a cheer and the crowd responded enthusiastically. Ghorn, intent on the words of his subordinate, waved his arm in acknowledgement without pausing.
Aerlon examined this prince of Mhajhkaei upon whom lay the last hope of stopping the Phaelle’n drive of conquest. From what the Plydyrii had seen, Ghorn was a principled man; he certainly seemed to respect the ancient codes. Aerlon’s initial judgment was that the Prince was disciplined, intelligent, capable, and obviously possessed of the loyalty of his armsmen. Nevertheless, many of the princes and commanders of the various city-states that had thus far fallen to the Monks had been equally so. None of their skill or discipline had been sufficient to combat the Phaelle’n sorcery. Nor, as this foul day had proven, had any of the skill or discipline of any of the rulers of The Greatest City in All the World. It seemed doubtful that Ghorn would be a match for the ungodsly might of Aerlon’s former masters. It seemed clear, the former commander decided at that moment, that magery was simply too powerful for normal men to overcome. This challenge surely would require something far more powerful, far more magical, than a mere mortal man.
Aerlon turned his eyes once more to the young magician. He did not smile nor seem particularly happy with the young woman who stood stiffly beside him. If Aerlon had not know better, he would have thought from the way they tensed when they glanced at each other that they had just had a lover’s spat.
The Plydyrii searched the young man’s face. Yes, he was angry with the woman, but something darker also tugged at the edges of his lips and eyes. It was clear: this man too hated the Phaelle’n.
Mhiskva had declared that magicians were the natural enemies of the Phaelle’n evil. Maybe Nael had been right. Maybe this young magician was truly destined to be the instrument of the gods.
FOURTEEN
Mar sucked in his chest and pressed his cheek against the chiseled surface of the block in front of him, trying to press his center of balance as near the wall as possible. The stone was cool to his face, but not cold, having yet to fully relinquish the heat of the day, even at this late hour.
The lightning flared again from the thunderstorm coalescing west of the bay, the white light illuminating for two flickering seconds the tower wall to his left. When darkness slammed back, his eyes were printed with a gray afterimage of a crack splitting a block half the size of his body. Simultaneously, he freed his outstretched hands, twisting the knife in his left out of the fracture before him and pulling the fingers of his right from the mortar joint behind, and leaped.
The toes of his new boots struck the tiny piece of gapped cornice as his knife slashed into the crack. Though he was now blind to the split, his knife struck true and wedged tightly. The thin blade flexed as he hugged the wall, his right hand clutching at the stone to dampen his momentum. Swaying slightly, he searched till he had found a grip for his right hand and, anchored firmly, tilted his head back to peer around the gentle curve of the tower wall. The next burst of light from the storm revealed his goal, a tightly shuttered, arched window the height of a man, less than four armlengths away.
He could have, he supposed, simply marched in company with Berhl and Ulor through the corridors between his room and Telriy's and demanded entrance of the guards ("After all," Lord Ghorn had explained, "she is by her own admission allied with the enemy.") posted at the door. And he did not doubt that he would have been allowed to see her -- in the presence of those selfsame guards and his own shadowing protectors. However, Mar did not want the Prince-Commander to know of this meeting or the questions he would ask.
Not that it was much of a climb. The impressively domed tower, one of a set of four, was massive, but not very high, only five storeys. Mar and the girl had been assigned rooms on the highest floor. It was barely four full storeys from the bottoms of his boots to the tent and refugee packed plaza below. He had had to traverse nearly half the circumference of the structure, maybe a hundred and fifty armlengths, but perhaps a quarter of that had been a leisurely stroll across the roof of a balcony.
The wind had become chill by the time Mar reached the broad granite sill, the storm having finally made up its mind to turn over the city. Neither light nor sound seeped throug
h the cracks around the weathered wooden shutters. He slid the point of his knife between them and raised the simple bar latch.
The polished steel of the blade reflected the next stroke of lightning dancingly into his eyes and, with a fraction of his attention, he again marveled at his new possession. He could have shaved with it, so keen was the edge, and his hand hid finely mounted rubies and gold inlay that could only have been produced by a master craftsman. The poniard was, as they said in Khalar, worth a Patriarch's ransom. Lord Ghorn had also generously offered a sword of equally rich craftsmanship, but Mar, somewhat dumbfounded by the speed with which his initial request had been granted, had insisted that he needed only the knife. The exquisite blade and its finely tooled leather sheath had been presented to him immediately, but with none of the fanfare its richness seemed to demand.
The rain began finally, big drops moving almost sideways with the force of the wind. Gusts battered him and in a scare moment his new clothing had been drenched and plastered to his skin.
He pressed his ear against a shutter as the rain slicked his hair and began to form runnels down his face. Listening closely, he detected no sounds of movement inside. If this window followed the pattern of the one at his room, there would be a wide space between the flush-mounted shutters and the framed glass doors behind them. Slowly and with great care, he eased the shutters inward just enough to pass his body. The hinges, as were those in his own room, were well oiled and made no noise to betray him as he slipped inside. He closed the shutters quickly against a biting blast of wind and dropped the latch back in place as the drum of rain rattled across the wood.
Immediately, he dropped to a crouch and became still. He had expected the interior windowed doors to be closed, but could sense nothing before him in the washed out grayness. With the doors open, any sound he made would be carried immediately into the room.
It took several moments for his night vision to return; luckily the shutters kept out much of the actinic glare of the storm, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim torch light filtering under the door that led to the common room. This room was much like the one that the Mhajhkaeirii had assigned to him, though marginally smaller. The outer wall was the cut stone of the structure, faced and squared. The inner three walls were brick, the high ceiling braced beams, and the floor polished hardwood. There was little furniture -- a stuffed chair, a bureau, a small table, and the large bed.
Silencing his own breath, he took a slow step off the window ledge into the room.
A low, muffled voice vibrated through the door, freezing him into immobility once more. The voice ended in a quiet laugh in which another voice joined. When the laughter faded, there was a moment's pause and then the second voice started up at length. When he was sure that the guards were only chatting to pass the time, he began to creep stealthily toward the bed.
Mar was not at all sure that this escapade was wise. His uncertainty had several times tempted him to turn back to his own room, but each time something like desperation had driven him on. He knew that none but the girl could answer his questions, but he doubted that her answers would please him -- if he could make her answer them at all.
There had been no opportunity to confront Telriy earlier. A dismounted file of Mhajhkaeirii scouts had reached the rooftop only moments after her appalling revelation. The girl had uttered nothing more as the horses Lord Ghorn had called for bore them back to the Citadel, through curious but restrained crowds, and then to the Palace of the Princedom at the heart of the massive fortress. Burdened by somber thoughts, Mar had allowed himself to be separated from Telriy, supplied with new clothing, and led to his room without protest, asking only for the knife he gripped now in his hand.
Mar's feelings concerning the girl were a chaotic mix. Guilt warred with anger. He could not shake the conviction that he was responsible for her abduction by the Brotherhood, but her traitorous act in joining with the enemy filled him with outrage. She had called to him there at the last on the barge, as if she had some claim upon him, but had hurled her rage upon him when he had finally rescued her.
He knew nothing of her, really. Where did she come from? What did she know of magic? How had she known of the Mother of the Sea?
Overriding all of these questions was his memory of the vision of the moon pool. One meaning of that vision was unmistakably clear -- Telriy would bear his children.
But was that certain? Both Marihe's vision and that of the pool had shown him a self that was not the man he was now; countless years, actions, and experiences seemed to stand between the Mar of this moment and those. And were those visions the fate decreed him by the Forty-nine Gods, if there was such a thing, or simply a possibility? Were they futures that might be -- but not necessarily would be? Could he choose another path by avoiding certain actions? These uncertainties had driven him to her room, hoping that by either coercion or pleading he could gain some insight from her that would reveal the answers he felt he must have.
There was an indistinct bundle sunk in the middle of the feather mattress, wrapped in quilted coverlets. He took another cautious step.
With a soft flash of light, a long glowing blade appeared beneath his chin. Warmth radiated from the strangely flickering metal, flushing the skin of his neck. He froze in place, swiveling only his eyes to follow the blade and found its handle held in a slim hand that rose from over his shoulder.
"What do you want, Mar?” Telriy asked in a careful whisper from behind him.
Disconcerted, he took a moment to respond. Her manner was casual, not angry, and he was unsure what that meant.
"I thought you were asleep," he answered in the same hushed tone.
"Sleep?” Telriy demanded peevishly, circling to his front, the edge of her blade moving neither closer nor farther from his skin.
"How am I supposed to sleep with those two dullards out there telling jokes all night? Not very good jokes, either, and they started repeating themselves after only an hour. The riddles are the worst part of it. Do you know why the duck rode on the back of the three-legged dog?"
"No, I --”
"You don't really want to know," she told him, her voice quickening, developing an almost breathless quality.
The girl had dressed in a high necked cotton sleeping gown that was patently too large for her, its trailing hem dragging the floor and its sleeves rolled back to clear her wrists. The light from beneath the door gave a soft golden edge to her silhouette that enticed Mar’s gaze. Her face remained in shadow save for one sleek, highlighted cheek, but pinpoints of some strange inner blue light radiated from her dark eyes.
Mar flicked his gaze significantly towards the glowing blade. “Is that magical? How does it work?”
"It is called the 'Maiden's Companion.'" she offered without much enthusiasm. "The spell is incredibly complex, but my grandmother had great success with it. It doesn’t have a focus but is bound into my wrist. And, no, I don’t know how she did that. It's not very useful, really. There are too many restrictions to the spell. Only women may key it. The other stipulation I would rather not discuss."
These last statements raised speculative thoughts in Mar's mind that almost drove him to distraction. He wondered if that were her intention.
“Why haven’t you used it before?” he mused aloud.
“What do you mean?”
“In Khalar, at the Library or the bolt hole?”
“I didn’t need it to get your attention then.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sometimes, Mar, I think you were raised in a barrel.”
Mar grunted uncomprehendingly. “Could you take it away from my throat?”
“You’ve got one,” Telriy reminded. “I think I’ll keep mine for the moment.”
Mar flipped the poniard and caught it deftly by its tip, offering it to Telriy. He was certain that Lord Ghorn could provide another.
The girl considered a moment, then reached out, took the knife, and tossed it indifferently over her shoulder i
nto a corner beyond the bed. Unexpectedly, it struck something unseen in the dark and made a loud sound that startled them both.
“Oops!” Telriy hissed. The magical blade vanished. “Hide!”
“What?”
“Hide! The guards might look in.”
Speechless, Mar found himself shoved unceremoniously under the bed. His face a fingerlength from the slats, he flinched as the mattress above bounced as Telriy leapt in, vibrated as she wiggled under the covers, then finally became still as she feigned sleep. Fighting a sneeze generated by the abundant dust, he pinched his nose and waited.
After some time, it became readily apparent that the guards had not heard the sound and would not investigate – had not, in fact, paused their muffled dialogue. Exasperated, Mar began to worm his way from under the bed, managing to bring much of the dust with him.
Tossing back a muslin coverlet and the multiple layers of cotton quilts underneath, Telriy sat up and reached down to help him up.
“Ugh!” she recoiled. “You’re soaking!”
Mar smothered a messy sneeze in his hand.
“And you’ll be sick if you don’t get those clothes off,” she added in a firm whisper.
“What?” he demanded confusedly, fighting to keep his voice low.
Telriy reached out casually and began undoing the buttons down the front of his tunic.
Mar caught her hands. “Hold on.” He could not see much of the girl’s expression in the dimness, but her manner suggested that her suggestion was only practical expediency.
“You can wrap up in this comforter. We’ll hang your clothes up so they’ll dry.”
Mar frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Do you want to talk or not? I’m tired and I’m not getting up. If you hadn’t barged in, I might have grown used to the guards’ droning and fallen asleep by now. You can sit on the edge of the bed and we’ll talk, but you’re not plopping down on my clean sheets like that.”
Key to Magic 02 Magician Page 8
