Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  He was certain that did he press Cennaire and she reject him, he would be mightily hurt. Such pain he would not welcome, and therefore it seemed the wiser course to wait, to hold back. Cowardice? he wondered. Or sense? No matter—he felt some- „ what less confused, less pressured; or, perhaps, safer. And as Bracht had said, they faced long days together. He tied the sash and surveyed his splendid costume, deciding that he cut a rather grand figure.

  He moved to buckle on his sword, thinking better of it—likely the Jesserytes would take offense did a guest come armed to table—but instead took his dirk concealing the blade beneath the tunic, grinning as he thought that the innocent who had fled Secca would never so instinctively seek that protection.

  Still grinning, he quit the room and went to Bracht's door.

  The Kern was dressed no less magnificently, although he was considerably less at ease in the unfamiliar costume. He shifted restlessly, setting the dark blue silk of his tunic to rustling, tugging at the silver sash, glancing down at the loose jade- green trousers.

  "Ahrd, but I feel a popinjay," he grumbled. "Could we not wear civilized clothes?"

  "You look most handsome."

  Katya emerged from her chamber and Bracht stopped his fidgeting, jaw dropping as he gaped at the Vanu woman. She wore a robe of glistening black, all sewn with twining silver birds, high- collared, descending to her feet, the tips of silver slippers peeking from beneath the hem. Her flaxen hair was unbound, falling smooth over the gown's shoulders, dramatic contrast to the sable silk, a match to the embroidered birds. She smiled at the Kern's expression, which remained amazed.

  "And you ..." he mumbled. "Ahrd, but I've never ..."

  Katya laughed, waiting. Bracht shook his head, helplessly. Calandryll said, "You look superb," then gaped himself as Cennaire came into the corridor.

  Her gown was a reflection of Katya's, shimmering silver, the birds all black and green, her hair a spill of blue-black, falling to the swell of her breasts. Her lips shone red and her eyes were huge, emphasized with kohl, flickering from one to the other, fixing longest on Calandryll.

  He bowed, as if once more in his dead father's court, and said, "You are lovely," hearing the words come out hoarse from a mouth gone suddenly dry. Abruptly, he felt awkward, grateful to the armored man who emerged from the shadows, bowing, inviting them to follow him to the dining hall. It was hard to take his eyes from Cennaire's face, exciting to offer her his arm, to feel her hand warm through the silk. He struggled to remember the courtly moves, the conversation, aware of Bracht's muffled chuckle at his back. No words came and he swallowed, cursing himself, his mind gone blank of compliments.

  At his side, Cennaire needed no augmented senses to recognize arousal, or embarrassment, and deemed it wisest to affect modesty, murmuring a demure "My thanks. You, too, are splendid," concealing her smile as he cleared his throat, opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and muttered, '"Thank you," in a near groan.

  To Calandryll, it was almost a relief to enter the hall and find himself in such company as distracted him a little from the woman.

  The chamber, like all others in the keep, was crepuscular, the flambeaux mounted along the dark- paneled walls shedding no more than flickering pools of light, their smoke sweet-scented, mingling with the odors of roasting meat and wine. There were windows, but shuttered against the night now, so that the colorfully garbed Jesserytes who occupied the five long tables were near ghostly figures, their dark faces lost, as if the bright tunics themselves were animated, their conversation falling away to a murmur as the guests were escorted to the farther end of the low-ceilinged room.

  There, set at a right angle to the rest, stood a smaller table, flanked along one side by backless chairs, allowing the diners there to survey the chamber. Chazali occupied the central seat, Ochen and Temchen to either side, the warriors resplendent in outfits of extravagant colors, empty places between them. Calandryll was unsure if it was a welcome relief or a disappointment to find himself located between the wazir and the kiriwashen, Cennaire to Ochen's right. Katya, too, he noticed, was placed at the table's farther end, on Temchen's left, assuming it a Jesseryte custom that the women should occupy the most remote seats.

  "I trust your kitai suit," Chazali inquired. "I had feared we should find none to fit you."

  "Excellently." Calandryll found it easier to converse without the distraction of Cennaire's presence. "You've our thanks for such hospitality."

  "We are not"—Chazali smiled, glancing at Bracht—"entirely barbarous."

  "Indeed not," Calandryll agreed as the kiriwashen filled his cup with pale golden wine. "Mystery breeds phantoms, I think—folk tend to fear what they do not know."

  Chazali nodded soberly, his face again grave, inscrutable. "I have never met a Lyssian before," he remarked.

  "You do not visit Nywan?" Calandryll sensed this was. not the time to discuss the war, their quest: the kiriwashen appeared bent on trivial conversation, and he accepted that cue. "Our merchants trade there."

  "No." Chazali shook his head. "Nywan is the province of the kembi."

  The word, despite Ochen's magic, had no obvious translation, though the note of contempt was clear enough. Calandryll's face expressed his lack of understanding.

  "I am kotu," Chazali explained. "Of the warrior caste. Kotu do not dabble in trade, which is the concern of the kembi."

  Calandryll nodded, his natural curiosity aroused— there was much to learn of this strange and isolated people. He asked, "Are all here kotu?"

  "Save Ochen," said Chazali, "who is wazir."

  "And the Shendii?"

  "Kotu. The wisest of the kotu, usually the oldest," Chazali explained, and laughed again. "A warrior must survive to learn wisdom, to win the respect of his clan."

  "Are there other castes?" Calandryll was intrigued. "Or are all divided between warriors, mages, and merchants?"

  "There are the gettu—the farmers," said Chazali, "and the artisans, who are of the machai caste. There are others, but of no account. It is not so in Lysse?"

  "No," Calandryll replied, and found himself involved in a lengthy description of his homeland as men in simple white tunics and yellow pantaloons served the meal.

  It was plain fare, such as soldiers eat, but tasty enough, and plentiful—the Jesserytes seemed possessed of hearty appetites—and the talk meandered back and forth, all there learning more of one another's customs and countries. The tengs of the Jesseryn Plain, Calandryll discovered, were less castles than cities, each containing a population of many thousands, all linked by birth or marriage or adoption to one clan. Beyond the walls, the holds were surrounded by farmland, the gettu living under the protection of the warrior overlords, while beyond the arable steadings the country lay wild, unclaimed by any save the outlaw bands of dispossessed kotu Chazali named, with massive contempt, the tensai. It seemed, to Calandryll, a society far more rigid than his own, a hierarchy dominated by the kotu, who in turn were dominated by their kiriwashen and wazirs, the Khan little more than a figurehead, subservient to the Mahzlen.

  It came to him that Chazali was a very powerful man—indeed, one of the leaders of Pamur-teng— and that his presence demonstrated the weight he placed on Ochen's warning. That the kiriwashen should come himself to the keep indicated the alarm he felt at thought of the Mad God's awakening. No less was it a further guarantee of true alliance.

  "And Anwar-teng," he asked, hoping he broke no protocol, "is that hold solely the domain of the Soto-Imjen?"

  "Anwar-teng is different," Chazali advised him.

  "It is the home of the Soto-Imjen, but also of the Mahzlen and the wazir-narimasu."

  "But if the rebels are gone from the Mahzlen ..." Calandryll paused, choosing his words with infinite care, sensing that he trod delicate ground. "How stand the kotu of Anwar-teng?"

  Chazali grunted, staring a moment at his wine cup. Calandryll feared he gave offense, but then the kiriwashen chopped a dismissive gesture and said, "Those who lef
t are tensai. No more than that! They may claim no man's allegiance. Those who follow them are tensai. Worse!"

  His voice, guttural by nature, was harsh, like the growl of an outraged hound. Calandryll would have inquired more about the war, the order of march, and the likelihood of the rebel armies broaching the walls of Anwar-teng, but Chazali's tone, his stance, even his expression, which was no longer inscrutable but sharp-edged with fury, disallowed further questioning. He filled his cup, drinking deep, as though to rid his mouth of an unpleasant taste deposited by the condemnation, and afterward concentrated angrily on his plate.

  Calandryll thought it more diplomatic to shift the subject, and turned to Ochen.

  The wazir, however, was engaged in animated conversation with Cennaire, and Calandryll found himself left awhile in silence, watching them. Dera, but she was beautiful! He studied her animated face, thinking of all the things he might have said to her, all the things he might in the future say, did his tongue not stumble again and the pretty compliments dissolve in gangling awkwardness. He cursed himself afresh for such naive embarrassment, and then she caught his eye and he thought her smile lit the dark room, and he felt his cheeks grow warm and could not understand why he had to look away, fumbling for his cup.

  He found it, and Chazali's gaze on him, speculative, he thought, though it was difficult to judge. Less so the raised eyebrows, and not at all the quietly murmured question.

  "She belongs to you? I fear these are warrior's quarters and we've no chambers larger."

  "No," Calandryll mumbled. "No matter. She's not . . . My chamber suits me well."

  Chazali, as if seeking to atone for his display of anger and himself sensing a delicate topic, smiled, returning his attention to the fruit the serving men had placed before him.

  No more was said, to Calandryll's relief, of war or women, their talk returning to commonplace matters, and in a while the meal was ended and Ochen announced that he would leave them and continue his magical cleansing of the keep. His departure seemed taken as cue that all should retire, and Chazali summoned a man to lead the guests to their quarters.

  Cennaire again took Calandryll's arm, and he found himself murmuring banalities concerning the food and their hosts, thinking that he babbled, though she smiled and answered in kind, seeming not to notice his awkwardness. Indeed, she appeared a trifle withdrawn, as if concerned with her own thoughts, murmuring a soft "Good night" at her door and entering the chamber without a backward glance.

  Katya was already gone, and Calandryll ignored Bracht's amused stare, waving a farewell as he turned into his own cell and closed the latchless door.

  The window revealed a rectangle of star-brightened sky, the moon close to full, and he leaned awhile on the sill, aware that the night wind blew cleaner, the tainted aftermath of Rhythamun's magic fading. Even so diminished it was an insult to the senses, to propriety, and he shuddered as he thought of that visitation, of the awful despair that had earlier gripped him, reminded then of Ochen's warning, wondering if his enemy could, indeed, sense his presence, could reach out through the medium t)f the aethyr to touch him. It was as well, he thought, that the Jesseryte wizard should accompany him, a sentry against Rhythamun's fell sortilege. Then, briefly from across the yard, he caught the scent of almonds, a pale flickering of light that for an instant was shaped in the form of the strange sigils Ochen painted, and guessed that the silverhaired sorcerer went about his magical business, tireless it seemed. The impression of charnel stench faded more, and he yawned and turned away, taking off his unfamiliar clothing and folding it carefully before snuffing the candles and throwing himself gratefully on the bed. He closed his eyes, the image of Cennaire's face clear as sleep took him.

  IN her own chamber, Cennaire undressed and sat awhile combing her hair absently, lost in troubled thoughts.

  That Ochen was a wizard of power, she did not doubt, and wondered if he knew her for revenant. He had said nothing; indeed, throughout the meal he had proven an amusing companion, witty and informative, but still she wondered. Did he recognize her for what she was, why had he not spoken out? He had touched her mind, with his gift of language, and she had thought then to be discovered, but he had seemed, rather, to reassure her. Perhaps he had not seen so deep, perhaps he concealed that knowledge for reasons of his own. She could not tell and such lack of certainty unnerved her, rendering her indecisive, for she felt herself surrounded by hazards, her choices leeched off, like a deer that hears encircling hunters drawing ever closer, seeing no avenue of escape save headlong confrontation.

  The mirror stood propped within an alcove, and as she studied her face, she thought of Anomius, contemplating a summoning, perceiving her master as another threat to her own safety. Did he wonder where she was, how she fared? Did he grow impatient? Or was he occupied with the Tyrant's war, too involved to concern himself with the doings of his creation? Almost, she spoke the words, but knowledge of Ochen's presence, awareness of his power, left them still-born on her tongue. Did she contact her master, surely the Jesseryte sorcerer must know it, and how he might then react, she had no idea. Instead, she completed her toilette, telling herself she had, anyway, nothing to say, certainly nothing of any great interest to Anomius. She sighed, setting mirror and comb, both, safely in her satchel, thinking that she was caught in dilemma.

  Did Anomius wax impatient, was it possible he could find a way to escape the attentions of the Tyrant's sorcerers, return to Nhur-jabal, to wreak some magic on her living heart? Did he do that, then she was surely powerless against him. Yet to assuage his impatience, she must use the mirror and thus—surely!—reveal herself to Ochen, who likely would advise Calandryll and the others. And then . . . then perhaps such magicks as could destroy her should be brought to bear. To act, or not, both seemed paths fraught with danger: she caught a lip between her teeth, worrying at the soft flesh, feeling herself trapped, her choices narrow as her miserable cell.

  Patience, she decided finally, and hope—that Anomius was burdened with sufficient as would prevent him both from wondering what she did and returning to Nhur-jabal. Equally, that Ochen's magic had not identified her, would not be used against her. There appeared no other choice but inaction, and while such inertia sat uneasily on her mind, she could perceive no alternative, save flight—which must surely earn Anomius's displeasure.

  With that poor comfort, she killed the candles—as would any creature with beating heart—and climbed between the sheets to await the morning.

  The night grew older as she lay sleepless, turning thought over thought without finding satisfactory conclusion. Then the soft tapping of knuckles against her chamber's door brought her instantly alert.

  For a moment she delayed responding, feigning the confusion of one caught asleep as her mind raced. Calandryll? Certainly he had shown great interest, and great confusion, that night, and in the midst of all her doubts she held the single certainty that he was mightily attracted to her. She had enjoyed the stumbling compliments he paid her, even his innocence, that being a rare commodity in the life she had known, and she wondered if he plucked up the courage to come to her. Another man, one less courteous or perhaps more confident of himself, would not have delayed so long. She smiled, thinking that she would welcome his attentions: he was, after all, a handsome young man. And should he come to love her—that she could ensnare him, she did not doubt: did he spend the night in her arms, the morning must surely find him love-struck—then she must surely win herself a powerful ally. Both thoughts excited her; which the most, she was not sure.

  The tapping came again and she ran swift fingers through her hair, a tongue over her lips, drawing the sheet modestly over her nudity, and bade her visitor enter.

  She was unable to stifle a gasp of surprise when the door swung open to reveal Ochen.

  "Hush."

  The mage raised a warning finger, closing the door silently behind him, plunging the room into darkness as Cennaire mouthed a silent, and most unladylike, curse, hoping he took h
er startlement for the genuine surprise of a demure woman finding a man entering her sleeping chamber.

  "Who is it?" she demanded, endeavoring to pitch the question somewhere between outrage and fright, remembering belatedly that mortal folk lacked her nocturnal vision. "Who are you?"

  Soft laughter—mocking?—answered and she tensed, preparing to fight for her undead life. If worse had come to worst, then she would seek to overpower the mage, slay him if she must, and flee the keep. Anomius would surely be angered, but still she could likely follow the questers at a distance, which might satisfy her master. Beneath the thought hung a barely recognized regret, and fleetingly she wished it had been Calandryll who knocked. She steeled herself, taken once more aback by Ochen's next words.