Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  Ochen had suggested the power within him invested him with a sight capable of penetrating to the soul, to the truths within: abruptly, he chose to trust the wazir's observance, to put it to the test.

  "I'd speak with Cennaire," he said, rising, beckoning her to her feet. "Alone."

  She looked up then, startled, hesitating as Bracht frowned, Katya's brows shaped a question, Ochen smiled in seeming approval. Calandryll nodded, encouraging, and she rose, instinctively, nervously, smoothing her tunic. He took her arm, courtly, and she allowed him to lead her away from the fire, toward the trees, docile.

  The moon was risen now, a slender crescent again, wan against a hyacinthine sky pricked through with silver stars. The wind sung cold among the trees, its melody echoed by the lament of wolves, the soft hooting of hunting owls. He walked away from the fires, past the picketed horses, the guards Chazali had set, aware of all their eyes on his back, aware of their expectations and their fears, their doubts. He continued on, his hand formal on Cennaire's elbow, back down the road until they were beyond earshot.

  Then, a few short steps distant from the road, where tall pines swayed, rustling in the wind as if they gossiped, circling a narrow patch of coarse grass, he let go Cennaire's arm and turned to face her.

  For a moment he stood silent, voicing a prayer to Dera that the goddess guide him to the truth. Then, aloud, he said, "Lady, we needs must talk."

  "Of what?" Cennaire brushed back hair streaked silvery with stars' light, her eyes luminous on his face, her voice subdued. "What may I say that I've not already?"

  It was as difficult to fight the urge to take her in his arms as it was to forget all she had done, who had made her what she was. He set a hand about his swordhilt, saw her eyes register that movement and shifted his grip, thumbs hooking his belt.

  "Bracht believes ..." He paused, contradictory emotions a turmoil in his mind. A deep breath then, a rush of words, best spoken swift lest his tongue should falter: "Bracht believes that what I feel . . . that because I love you ... I am blinded. He believes you a traitor."

  It was hard to face her as she smiled, wistfully he thought, and said, "He's made that clear enough."

  "And yet Ochen claims you've a part to play in this quest of ours. I must decide ere this mistrust tears us apart."

  Cennaire nodded then, her starlit features solemn, her eyes grave, and said, "And do you decide, shall Bracht accept it? He's an unforgiving man, I think."

  "Aye." Calandryll smiled, brief and without humor. "There's that, but even so—do you convince me, then perhaps I may persuade him."

  "How shall I convince you?" she asked, turning a moment away, head thrown back, eyes studying the velvet sky, closing an instant as if in resignation, then open again, returning to his face. "Shall I tell you that I made a choice when I saw the uwagi take you? That I thought then only that you might die, and I could not bear that thought? You say you love me? I tell you, Calandryll den Karynth, that I love you. No!" She gestured him silent as he was about to speak. "Hear me now; now that we may speak alone, without interference or interruption—I'd have you know what I am, exactly. After, when you know it all, judge me."

  Her voice was edged hard as Bracht's face, steeled to decision: Calandryll ducked his head, accepting. He suspected, looking into her intense eyes, that he should not welcome this confession, that he should learn of things he might better prefer remained unsaid. It seemed the wind grew colder, the susurration of the trees more ominous. Dera be with me now, he thought. Be with me and guide me.

  Cennaire, for all the chill breath of the night wind meant nothing to her, shivered, folding her arms across her breast. She locked her gaze, unblinking, on his face, determined now that he should learn it all. Did he turn from her after, then so be it: for now she felt a need the truth be told in its entirety, that there no longer be secrets between them. She did not properly understand her motives, only knew that along the way from Kandahar to this forest clearing she had changed, become something other than the revenant Anomius had sent out, something other than the woman she had been, and that she must unburden herself to this man.

  "I was a courtesan," she said, only determination preventing her voice from faltering, praying even as she spoke that he might understand—should believe—she was no longer the person she described. "I was condemned to death for stabbing a lover. He refused me payment, and when I took his purse he threatened to denounce me—I put a knife in his belly, and I was condemned to death.

  "Anomius found me in the dungeons of Nhur- jabal and ordered me freed. I knew not why, save ..." She shrugged, the meaning explicit. "He worked his magicks on me and I was his creature. His gramaryes lent me such powers . . . Oh, I had known hunger before, but invested with his magicks food was pleasure, only,- nothing more. I was strong; I need not sleep. I can see, hear . . . Burash, but you know that. How else did I find you, when the uwagi took you? It was intoxicating. And he owned my heart—save I did his bidding, he would destroy me! He sent me out like a hunting dog, to find you, and Bracht. He knew nothing then of Katya. That he learned after I went to Vishat'yL"

  She hesitated, lips pursed. An owl hooted, but otherwise the forest was grown still. Even the wind, it seemed, waited on her confession, the tall trees leaning closer, anticipatory.

  "I learned of Katya, and where you went, from Menelian. That knowledge he gave me because he was confident of destroying me. He looked to slay me with his cantrips, but magic works better against the living, not against . . . what I am. I slew him." This in a dull, dead tone. "And then I spoke the cantrip Anomius had taught me and was back in Nhur-jabal ..."

  "How?" Calandryll asked, hoarse-voiced. "By magic?"

  "Aye, how else?" Cennaire nodded. "He taught me that spell that I might return to him the easier."

  "Then might you not have gone back," Calan- dryll said slowly, "even go back now? And take back your heart?"

  "Wound round with Anomius's gramaryes?" Cennaire shook her head, starlight playing over the darkness of her hair. "Think you he's not set protections? I think that did I attempt that, I should die. That he should know of my coming and destroy me."

  "Aye." Calandryll remembered the ugly little sorcerer and could only agree. "Go on."

  "I went to Aldarin," she continued, "where I learned that Varent den Tarl was dead. I learned that from a man named Darth, who served den Tarl."

  "I knew him," Calandryll said, his voice hollow as he added: "And did you slay him, too?"

  Cennaire nodded. "He looked to take his pleasure of me. I'd have let him live, else. But he gave me scant choice."

  "Dera!" Calandryll said, aghast. "You leave few alive behind you, Lady."

  She ducked her head again. He stared at her, wondering that he could still love her: that he did, he could not doubt, even were it insanity.

  "I learned from Gart and Kythan what it is you seek," she said as he motioned her to continue. "Those two I did not slay—you've my word on that. Though likely you'll not take it."

  She laughed a hollow laugh and studied him with eyes that seemed haunted. He was not sure why he believed her, but he did—she had confessed to other murders. Why not, then, to those? "I take it," he said.

  And she smiled: a glimmer of hope, and said, "From them I learned the rest, which you mostly know. I used the mirror to speak with Anomius, and he commanded me to find you and join you.

  The rest you know—I came to the Kess Imbrun, to the Daggan Vhe, and there I saw Rhythamun for the first time."

  She broke off, shuddering at the memory. She seemed then, for all Calandryll knew her undead, a woman imbued with preternatural powers, one who had slain men in obedience to her creator, entirely vulnerable. He steeled himself and demanded, "Aye? Continue."

  "What I told you of him was true," she said. "Is true. I felt . . . Burash! It was horrible, what he did. To eat human flesh? To steal another's form?"

  "And yet you still obeyed your master." It was an effort to hold his voice calm, to hide the re
vulsion he could not help but feel. "Anomius bade you join us, to take the Arcanum from us."

  She looked at him then, her fate in his eyes, and nodded. "Aye, then." She swallowed air, cold, hope fading. "I joined you to take the Arcanum from you, for Anomius."

  "So is Bracht right?" he demanded, the question chill as the wind. "Do you look to seduce me to that end? Is that why you saved me from the uwagi? In service of your master?"

  "No!" Her voice rose loud, helpless; hopeless. "Burash, but I cannot ask you to believe me, even though all I've said is true! I know not what has changed me, but I tell you—I love you! I cannot bear the thought of your dying. What can I say? I have traveled with you—with you and Bracht, and Katya—and something in me has changed in your company. I'd have back my heart and be mistress of my own destiny again. I'd not see Rhythamun, or Anomius, own the Arcanum. I'd not see Tharn raised. Calandryll, I've not the right to ask or expect belief from you, but I tell you this—that I shall do all I may to see your quest succeed.

  Burash! Does it cost me my heart, still I'll see you succeed! Believe me or not, that is the truth."

  The night hung still about them, the wind died down, wolves and owls, all the predators of the dark hours, fallen silent. The moon was a curved blade against the sky, the stars cold and distant, an impassive jury. Calandryll felt the weight of decision—of indecision—heavy on his shoulders as he studied her face. Her eyes were wide and shining, though whether in hope or defiance, he could not be sure. He felt certain she had told him the truth about her life—about what she had been, and what she had done in service to Anomius. But the rest? Could he believe she had changed so much? That a creature made by magic, her heart no living organ but some product of thaumaturgy, might so dramatically shift her allegiance?

  What if she lied, hiding her real intentions?

  What if all she said was truth?

  He wiped a hand over lips gone dry, sighing, aware of a pressure building behind his eyes, thoughts racing madly about his mind. He wanted to believe her. But was that a wanting born of emotion, of what he felt for her? He coughed a bitter laugh, thinking a moment of his father, thinking what Bylath might have said, were he present. He could imagine his father's scorn, his brother's contempt. And yet . . . and yet what he felt for this woman surpassed all he had felt for Nadama den Ecvin.

  That, in the midst of all his confusion, remained a fact hard as stone, as steel; and like a steel blade, it cut him deep.

  Did she lie, then he might likely need to slay her. And would: of that he had no doubt. The notion of the Arcanum in Anomius's grubby hands was as

  abominable as the thought of Rhythamun's success.

  Dera, he asked into the silence, do you show me the way of itl Show me the truth, I beg you.

  Not Dera, for this is not her domain but mine.

  Calandryll gasped as the words struck his ears. For a moment it seemed the night, the world, spun whirling around him. He saw Cennaire start back, eyes wider, turning to seek the speaker, even as he recognized the sound came not from among the trees, was not shaped by any human throat, but rather echoed inside both their minds. She looked then afraid as that realization dawned, and he touched her, saying, "Wait," softly, and she looked at him, and drew closer, as if seeking his protection as shadow coalesced among the pines, taking solid form.

  He heard her give a small, frightened cry as the shape emerged, and, unthinking, lay an arm about her shoulders, holding her against him as he began to smile, head bowed in obeisance.

  Your land of Lysse, that is my sister's domain.

  From between the trees came a horse, huge, larger again than Bracht's great stallion stood above the Jesseryte ponies. The stars were reflected in its coat, or shone therein, for it seemed a thing of shadow and light, not entirely distinct, but rather shimmering, as if the force of life itself played and danced within its form. Brilliance sharded where hooves struck grass, it seemed the eyes shone moonlight.

  Calandryll said, "Horul!"

  Aye, the god returned, for this is my domain, and I heard your call.

  The shape changed then, flickering in the instant of an eye's blinking, faster, becoming no longer equine, but a man-shape, naked and muscular, surmounted with a horse's head, the mane flowing proud over massive shoulders, the eyes bright with intelligence.

  Calandryll felt Cennaire press closer, trembling, and said, "There's nothing to fear. Save you lied."

  She shook her head, but it was the god who answered.

  She did not. All she told you was truth.

  The weight of doubt oppressing Calandryll lifted somewhat at that. "Then she's one with us?" he asked. "She's a part to play in this quest?"

  Aye, said the god. Though it may cost her, or you, dear.

  "Do you explain?"

  I cannot. A hint of laughter, rueful, light like falling stars shed from between the equine lips. I am bound—did my sister, my brothers, not say as muchl What aid is ours, we give you; but what aid we may give you is limited by designs beyond our making, by powers greater than us.

  Calandryll looked up—the man-horse form of the god overtopped him by a head or more—and said, "But I should trust her?"

  Do you not love her?

  "I do."

  Without trust, what value has lovel

  "But . . ."

  She was a courtesan? A mage stole out her heart, made her revenant? She has slain men you named friend?

  "Aye! All that."

  But still you love herl

  "Aye. But ..."

  Think you change is impossible? Forgiveness? Look into your soul, and trust what you find there.

  "You say Menelian's death, the others, count for nothing?"

  I say you look for answers, and that I offer you those within my power to give. To take them, or not, that is for you to decide; but that te fleshly organ you name the heart is not the repository of the soul, but only a mechanism. The pneuma rests elsewhere, in every fiber of the being. In the flow of blood and the tissue of the muscle; in the bones and the skin. It is all of you mortal folk, the totality of you; not some single, isolated part. This upstart wizard may hold her heart, and so control her physical existence, but he cannot govern what she is. That shifts and changes, is altered by time and the influence of others, by folk such as you and your comrades.

  Again, then, that spectral laughter, like the distant dance of stars in the night sky, far off, like the hint of sunlight rising through the mists of dawn.

  It is your choice, Calandryll den Karynth—to trust her, or not. But if you love her, I tell you that you had best trust her. Put aside all she was, and trust in what she is now. Those deaths you spoke of! No, they are not nothing—they cannot be, for each life taken leaves a debt that must, in some fashion, be settled. But this woman may atone for her sins. Has she not already risked much on your behalf, on behalf of your quest!

  "Aye, she has." He drew Cennaire tighter against him, suddenly aware of her arm about his waist, the pressure welcome. "But what further part has she?"

  That I cannot say. Forces move within the realm you name the aethyr . . . Horul paused then, the great, black-maned head craning back, moving from side to side, nostrils flaring as though scenting the night. . . . Forces far greater than mine, than any commanded by we Younger Gods. Tharn stirs, and would see us gone, and even now his strength is growing apace. Men feed it; men may defeat it.

  "You speak," Calandryll said, aware that he echoed Bracht, "in riddles. If men feed Tharn's power, and may defeat the god, why do you not show us the way?"

  More laughter then, self-mocking, light dribbling from between the widespread lips to tumble down onto the grass, great arms spread wide as burning eyes locked on his face.

  Is life not a riddle! Why did Y1 and Kyta quit your world! Why give it over to Tharn and Balatur! Why not take it back, when the godwars % came! I cannot answer you, Calandryll; not with simple words. You are bonded to what you are, and I—and all my kindred gods—bonded to what we are. Th
ere are chains about us all, and we none can break them; only seek to slip them, or learn to live with them. You must do what you must do, as must I; and more than that I cannot tell you.

  It was on Calandryll's lips to retort: "More riddles," but he bit back the words and said instead, "But did you Younger Gods only lend us your aid, then surely we might defeat Rhythamun. Only bring us to him, and let us take the Arcanum from him, and we none of us need fear Tharn's resurrection."

  Could we, Horul answered, do you not think we would! We cannot! Men look to raise Tharn, and men must prevent that resurrection.

  "That's much to ask of men," Calandryll said.

  Perhaps. But is it more than men ask of us!

  "Then a lesser boon—do you lend your voice to convincing Bracht, Katya, be that needful?"

  Were they here now, then I think they should believe.

  "But they are not! Let me bring them; or come to where they are."

  We’ve not the time.

  Again the great head swept round, about the confines of the trees, up toward the twinkling stars. Were they a little dimmed? Calandryll felt the unpleasant prickling of trepidation, as if the air grew sullen with impending storm.

  Tharn would deny even this much, were he able. But he’s not yet so strong. Even so .. .

  The god broke off, head again flung back, the equine nostrils flaring. Calandryll followed his gaze and it seemed a curtain was drawn across the heavens. The stars, the moon, were lost, not behind cloud or the pale misting of dawn, but gone, as if they existed no longer.

  He stirs, he waxes angry. Horul's eyes returned to Calandryll, to Cennaire. I’ve no more time. I must depart, lest his wrath descend on you. Go on your way in knowledge that your heart speaks true, and that atonement may be won. Now— farewell.