Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "You perceive me well enough, I think. And do you only utilize those senses I understand your kind possess, then you'll know I intend no harm. Do that, and you shall save us both time."

  The suggestion was entirely unnecessary: Cennaire had, unthinking, opened all her preternatural senses, finding fresh cause for confusion in what she learned.

  She smelled no threat from Ochen. Curiosity, rather, and a dry amusement as he arranged his overrobe, settling himself on the bed casually as if he visited an old friend. Confidence, too, that persuading her he was warded with spells against attack. She found no indication of desire in him, but nonetheless drew the sheet closer about her, pretending modesty even as she struggled to assemble her bewildered thoughts.

  "No harm,” he repeated, his gnarled features clear in the darkness. "Nor shall you harm me—as you doubtless sense, I am guarded, and with such cantrips as would defeat even your kind."

  His voice was calm and utterly confident; all Cennaire could think of to say was "What do you want?"

  "A little of your time, an honest exchange." She saw him smile. "Did you think to conceal what you are from a wazir? The gift of tongues requires that I enter the mind. I saw that power that invests Calandryll, the presence of Ahrd in Bracht's veins— did you believe I'd not see what you are?"

  Cennaire frowned. Had she owned a heart, it would race now. She shrugged, saying, "I wondered."

  "And wondered, too, what I should do, no? And when I did nothing—said nothing—you hoped you'd gone unrecognized. Eh?"

  She nodded, wondering what game he played. That of Anomius, of Rhythamun? Was she fallen into the hands of another ruthless warlock?

  It seemed her doubts showed, for Ochen chuckled again and she smelled his amusement, his desire to reassure.

  "I'd not see the Mad God risen, be that what you fear,” he murmured. "Nor—for now, at least— would I reveal you, or destroy you."

  "For now?" she whispered, not doubting he could make good that veiled threat. "What then do you want?"

  "An explanation," he returned. "I'd know why you league with these questers, who know not what you are."

  "And then?"

  "And then I must decide."

  He had no need to add, "Your fate," and Cennaire ran a pink tongue over lips that seemed abruptly emptied of blood. In that instant she was absolutely confident this ancient mage could destroy her, and that her existence depended on satisfying him. Her initial impulse was to lie, to concoct some yarn, but Ochen's gentle voice put thoughts of subterfuge aside.

  "No Jesseryte band attacked your caravan," he said with absolute certainty. "Neither kotu nor tensai. That was merely a ploy, no? To win the sympathy of those three honest folk? A wizard of great power made you, and my guess is he sent you out after the Arcanum. Do you tell me true, perhaps we shall reach some accommodation. Do you lie—and I shall know it, doubt that not!—then . . ."

  A hand, mottled dark with time's spotting, gestured, the movement implicit. Cennaire drew deep breaths, aware that she was firmly snared, trapped in her deceit; that truth appeared the sole avenue of escape. She looked him in the eye and said, "I was taken from the dungeons of Nhur-jabal, in Kandahar, by a warlock named Anomius. He . . . made me what I am ... he took my heart ..."

  The telling of it, cold and clear, seemed somehow to set the act in starker light, to grant her an awareness, objective, of what had been done to her.

  It seemed, perhaps because she felt Ochen radiate sympathy, as much a curse as gift now, and as she spoke she felt resentment of Anomius grow.

  She told the ancient sorcerer everything, holding nothing back, and when she was done, it was as if she had enacted some penance, Ochen's response a benediction.

  "Such magic is foul," he murmured with disgust. "This Anomius must be a filthy creature to so abuse his talent."

  "But still he holds my heart," she said.

  "And would you have it back?"

  The question was mildly put; it rang in her ears like a clarion. She saw his eyes between the wrinkled, hooded lids, bright, studying her, and said without hesitation, "Aye."

  "Why?" he asked bluntly. "As you are, you possess such powers as mortal folk only dream of. As you are, you need not die."

  Cennaire paused, wondering if he baited her, or set some subtle trap. She watched his face: it was inscrutable. At last, slowly, she said, "I'd name no man my master, save I choose it be so."

  "Calandryll?" His voice was even, empty of expression,- she felt his magic as a shield about him, the wafting scent of almonds denying her senses' interpretation.

  "Calandryll?" she returned, seeking time, confused.

  "He's a comely youth. He's clearly enchanted by you. And I've the feeling you find his attentions not unwelcome."

  "No," she admitted, struggling to rally her thoughts. "He is . . . Perhaps . . . But how should he react to what I am?"

  Ochen cocked his head, birdlike. "At this moment," he said cheerfully, "I suspect he'd find the notion revolting. Did he learn you go about Anomius's business, he might well use that englamoured blade on you."

  "Think you so?" Cennaire asked, injecting the question with more confidence than she felt. "I think perhaps he would not."

  "You've a high opinion of him, or of yourself," the mage returned. "Perhaps you speak aright, but did he not, then surely Bracht would seek to slay you."

  "I think he could not," she said. "Save you aid him."

  "Aye." Ochen chuckled, nodding. "And that I could do. And should, did it come to that—those three are of paramount importance, while you ... I am not yet sure what part you play."

  "Then why let me survive?"

  Ochen drew thoughtful fingers through the silver strands of his mustache, observing her awhile with twinkling, enigmatic eyes, and she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny, feeling herself in some manner judged, wary of the outcome. She was thankful when he answered: "I've my reasons— which need not concern you for the moment."

  "And you'll not expose me?"

  She spoke as calmly as she was able, utterly confused. Ochen smiled, shook his head, and said, "No, save you force me to it."

  "Why not?" she asked again.

  And again he replied, "Fve my reasons," amplifying a little: "I've the feeling of a design in this. Beyond my comprehension, or yours, for now, but . . . something."

  Cennaire's bewilderment increased. Ochen sat silent, as if lost in thought. When he spoke, it was as though a judgment was delivered, though how, or what the sentence might be, she could not tell.

  "The time will likely come when you must make a choice. It will likely be a difficult choice—I'd urge you make it wisely."

  "I do not understand," she murmured, brow furrowed.

  "No," he returned equably, "you'd not. Nor shall until the time arrives. When that day dawns, remember this conversation. And along the road 'twixt now and then, learn."

  Cennaire stared at the wrinkled visage, puzzled, wondering if he spoke honestly, or if he hid intentions, designs of his own. Trust was an unfamiliar element in the world she knew, but for now it seemed he offered an alliance of some kind, a measure of safety, and that she snatched eagerly.

  "Until that time," she agreed.

  "So be it." Ochen rose, smoothing his overrobe. "I bid you good night, then."

  "Wait!" She reached out, clutching at his arm, snatching back her hand as the almond scent grew instantly stronger and she sensed the gathering power of his magic, like a blade poised to strike. "What of Anomius? I am commanded to report as opportunity permits, and should he wax impatient ..."

  She fell silent, Ochen completing the sentence for her: "He may decide to prick your heart a little. Aye, there's that; nor would I have him interfere at this juncture." He stroked his wispy beard, lost awhile in thought. "So: contact him. How is that done?"

  "I've a mirror," she answered.

  The wazir said, "Then use it. But remember that such magic will be known to me, always."

  "What shall I t
ell him?" she asked, bewildered.

  Ochen chuckled softly. "What he doubtless wants to hear," he suggested. "That you ride with the questers, north toward the Borrhun-maj. Make no mention of me, neither of Anwar-teng nor the war. Does he wish to know where you are, tell him you find refuge in a keep, among simple warriors who suspect nothing. Think you that shall satisfy him?"

  "Aye." Cennaire nodded. "So long as he believes I continue after the Arcanum."

  "Which"—Ochen smiled, rising—"you do."

  She watched, dumbstruck, as he went to the door, pausing there to glance back. She thought she saw the slitted eyes twinkle as he murmured, "And my apologies—I regret it was not Calandryll who came to you."

  The door closed on his laughter,- on her bewilderment.

  She sat awhile, staring at the wood, her assumptions all in disarray, thrown into turmoil by the wazir's seemingly equanimious acceptance of her condition. She had thought to find sorcerers ever her enemies, save she serve them. Did she, then, serve Ochen in some fashion beyond her fathoming? Was she become part of the quest? Was Ochen friend or enemy? The answers lay beyond her grasp: all she knew for certain was that Anomius still controlled her heart, was still her master in that, but that now, to some extent at least, it seemed she danced to another's tune.

  She drew deep breaths, seeking a measure of calm, and when she found it, took out the mirror and began to speak the words of the gramarye.

  5

  THE sweet scent of almonds filled the chamber, the smooth silver surface of the mirror changing, swirling, like clear water disturbed by a thrown pebble, a whirlpool of color forming there, fading gradually into a darkness that seemed lit by distant, flickering fires. Cennaire frowned, staring at the strange image, wondering if somehow, so far from Kandahar, communication with her master became impossible, or if Ochen's magicks denied the contact. She gasped as the image shifted, distorting, revealing for a moment a brazier in which coals glowed red, then darkness again, a hint of some night-lit brightness beyond, something splattering against the surface, as though a stone were tossed back, toward her. Instinctively, she drew back, seeing whatever had struck the companion mirror smeared, all black then, then clear again, Anomius's face filling the disk.

  The ugly little sorcerer drew a sleeve across his mouth, particles of food dislodging, some remaining about his fleshy lips as he peered at her face, his own irritated as he said, "A moment."

  Cennaire saw the mirror obscured once more and almost laughed as she realized he ate, and in his haste spat food upon the surface. She quelled the impulse, waiting.

  Then, curtly: "It's been long enough. Where are you?"

  "Across the Kess Imbrun," she replied, "on the Jesseryn Plain."

  "What else lies across the Kess Imbrun?" he snapped, churlish as ever. "Where exactly?"

  "In a Jesseryte fort," she told him. "A keep that guards the Daggan Vhe."

  "With them?" His face came closer, the mirror again marked by the food he still chewed. "With Calandryll and the others?"

  "Aye," she said. "They found me as you promised, accepted my story. I go with them now."

  "And they suspect nothing?" He rubbed a grimy hand over his mouth, turned away an instant to spit. Cennaire heard the faint Sizzle as the gobbet struck the brazier. "They trust you?"

  "I am not sure," she answered truthfully. "Calandryll, I think; but Bracht holds reservations, and Katya, perhaps."

  "Perhaps?" The mirror swayed as he reached aside, settling as he brought a cup to his mouth, drinking noisily. "How mean you, perhaps?"

  "Bracht would have sent me back," she said, "but Calandryll spoke for me."

  Anomius snorted laughter, like a pig, Cennaire thought, snuffling in dirt. "He takes a fancy?" asked the warlock. "As I thought one of them would?"

  Cennaire ducked her head, saying, "Aye, he does. He's a gentle man."

  Further laughter answered her words, contemptuous of such definition, and Anomius demanded, "Has he taken you to his bed yet?"

  "No," she said, and again, "he's a gentle man."

  "He's a man and nothing more," the wizard grunted, dismissive, "but no matter—work those wiles you know so well and it shall come about. Bind him to you."

  Cennaire nodded again, not speaking.

  "So," Anomius said, "you're with them and trusted; enough at least you shall continue with them, no?"

  "Enough," she returned, "aye. Remember that I saw Rhythamun's new face, and that—"

  The warlock overrode her words. "Aye, Rhythamun!" he barked. "What of him? What of the book?"

  "He travels north, as best we know." She paused a moment, ordering her thoughts, recalling what Ochen allowed she might tell this disgusting little man, what to hold back. "He slew the soldiers of this keep with magic. Calandryll believes he left gramaryes behind, to ward his back, knowing he is pursued."

  "And yet they survive?" The sallow face contorted in a frown. "How so?"

  Cennaire realized her mistake, extemporized with truth and fiction: "Calandryll possesses a sword, englamoured. He slew the creatures."

  "Tell me," Anomius commanded, "of this sword."

  "It was enchanted by the goddess Dera," she replied, nervous now, for her master's face grew angry. "In Lysse, they said."

  Anomius grunted, a finger probing in his mouth, emerging with a sodden lump that he wiped on his robe. "So the Younger Gods aid them?" he asked thoughtfully.

  Cennaire wondered if an element of doubt, of fear even, put the stridency in his voice, and nodded solemn agreement. "They say that Burash brought them across the Narrow Sea, and in Cuan na'For, Bracht was taken prisoner and crucified, but Ahrd drove the nails from his hands and gave him back life. Even brought them through the Cuan na'Dru."

  Breath whistled wet from the sorcerer's nostrils and for a while he was silent, his liquescent eyes pensive as he rubbed at his nose. Finally he said, softer, "But they could not halt Rhythamun, the Younger Gods."

  Thinking it a question, Cennaire answered, "It would seem not."

  "Nor have they halted you." If he heard her response he gave no sign, rather pursuing the train of his own thoughts. "I think they must be weak, or limited in some way. No matter—so long as you continue unhindered about my business."

  "I do," she assured him, now, more than ever, unsure whether that was truth or fable.

  "And Rhythamun travels northward, eh? Toward the Borrhun-maj?"

  "They believe that," she said, dissembling. "That Tharn must lie beyond the mountains."

  "Flow shall they get there? I know no more than any other of the Jesserytes, but they are acknowledged an inhospitable folk. Shall they not turn you back?"

  The question took Cennaire by surprise. A woman less versed in dissimulation would likely have let fall the truth then—have shown on her face, or by her reaction, that she hid things—but

  Cennaire was practiced in concealment, and retained her calm, though it cost her effort.

  "It seems not," she said smoothly. "The people of this keep are friendly enough."

  "What people?" Anomius's voice was an abruptly suspicious bark. "Did you not just advise me Rhythamun slew the soldiery there?"

  Almost, she was caught then, only her quick wits saved her as she wove an elaboration. "Aye," she said, "that's true. But some escaped to carry word, and others came. By the time they arrived, Calandryll had slain the creatures Rhythamun left, and so the Jesserytes hail him a hero."

  Anomius was mollified: Cennaire vented a sigh of relief she hoped went unnoticed. "And you with him?" he demanded.

  "I am counted one of them," she agreed, expanding on her fabrication. "Now the Jesserytes offer us aid. They grant us free passage over the Plain."

  "Do they know of Rhythamun?" the warlock snapped. "Of the Arcanum? Do they suspect your purpose?"

  "No and no," she said, thinking fast, thinking to herself that this sorcerous game grew mightily hazardous, "and again, no. They believe we travel to Vanu—Katya's homeland—which lies within the fo
othills of the Borrhun-maj. No more than that."

  "Good," said Anomius. "But how far ahead is Rhythamun?"

  "Some few days," Cennaire returned.

  "Then do not linger," ordered the mage.

  "Save you bid me quit their company, I must travel at what pace they set," she said. "But they'd not grant him advantage."

  "No," he allowed, "likely they'd not. Stay with them, for I still believe they must be the key to

  Rhythamun's undoing, and thus most useful tools to my purpose."

  He chuckled at that, a horrid, bubbling sound. And I, thought Cennaire, am no more. Only a tool—to be discarded when my usefulness is spenti Aloud, she asked, "When we find him . . . what then? I think that sword Calandryll bears could slay even me. And that he'd use it, did I attempt to take the book from him."

  "Perhaps it could," Anomius agreed carelessly, and favored her with a pride-filled smile, "but think you I fail to see that far ahead?"

  "I know not what you think or what you see," she replied honestly.

  "Thus are you the servant, and I the master," came the smug response. "But fear not—when the time is right, I shall be there."

  "How?" Cennaire made no attempt now to conceal her surprise. "I thought you bound by magicks. Did the Tryant's sorcerers not set enchanted fetters on you?"

  "They did, curse them." The unhandsome little man grew uglier as he scowled. "But I shall rid myself of those hindrances ere long."

  "How shall you do that?" she asked, hiding sudden alarm behind a veil of flattery. "Are you so mighty a sorcerer?"

  "I am," he told her with total, frightening conviction. "And soon these accursed bracelets shall be removed. How need not concern you,- only that when I deem the moment right, I shall translate myself to where you are."

  Cennaire overcame her alarm, struggling against confusion, seeing only one way his promise might be kept, and that a fascinating thing, for it afforded her speculation of her own. "Through the mirror?" she asked, carefully adding, "You are truly a great mage."