The sweet Dendressi wine was a welcome pleasure he didn’t have the mental strength to trouble over. He took a long drink, handed the skin back, and experimentally climbed to his knees. They seemed steady, so he pushed up with the aid of his right hand, ignoring Muragan’s offered arm. On the left lay the headless body of the Dendressi queen. He knew he should have felt pride and wondered why he experienced not the faintest trace of it. He did not see her head, and wondered if it, too, had been caught in the wind.
Muragan saw the direction of his gaze.
“Dead, by your hand.” He sounded as though the idea was hard to credit.
Vannek understood that. He would never have dreamed he would kill the Dendressi queen, much less that he would do so at the side of the Altenerai. He tried to imagine what his family would have said, had they been alive, and he felt so removed from them and their concerns he abandoned the idea.
He recalled that his own followers had rejoiced. “Did my men get away?”
“The Dendressi who fled took most of them. Along with Anzat.”
“Why didn’t they take us? Was that deliberate?”
“I don’t think so. It was hard to see during the great storm. I heard them calling for all to follow.”
“And you didn’t go with them.”
“Not until I knew whether you were dead.”
Again he wondered at Muragan’s strange loyalty. He searched for explanation and still couldn’t read whatever lay hidden behind his eyes. “I thank you,” Vannek said, and wondered why the gratitude came so hard. Probably because he had yet to divine what Muragan really wished from him.
“Where do you think the fae death goddess was going?” Muragan asked.
Vannek’s gaze tracked toward the direction she had drifted, and the long road she had left in her wake. “Who can say? Maybe she’s off to destroy all our lands, like the Dendressi claimed.”
“If that were her aim, I don’t know why she wouldn’t have finished this place, with us as well.”
This was the first thing he’d said that really grabbed Vannek’s attention, because the mage’s point was valid.
“And she could have killed them, too.” Muragan pointed off to the right, and the side of a low hill.
Vannek looked past the finger to a group of figures circled about something lying on the ground. They wore khalats, but even from a distance he sensed they were not the Altenerai. These, then, were the enemy exalts, and they argued amongst themselves. One swept a hand at whatever lay there.
Vannek bent, lips compressed, and reached for the sword that lay beside him. It had been cleaned of blood; Muragan, then, had also worked to make sure he had a weapon handy. He was well-schooled in a ruler’s needs. Vannek started forward.
“What are you doing?”
“Something’s upsetting them,” Vannek said. “Maybe it’s something we need.”
Muragan fell in step, and they moved down past the stupidly happy statues casting long moon shadows across the inky black pool of water.
Vannek’s first steps were uneven, but soon his stride felt comfortable enough. He looked to his companion, realizing that his thoughts were growing less muddled. An obvious question came to him. “Why didn’t you retreat with the rest?”
“I was looking for you,” Muragan answered. “I told you that. Remember?” His brows furrowed in worry, and Vannek gave him a hard look.
“I remember. But I don’t understand. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ve no army, or if I still do, there’s no way to get to them before the demon goddess does.”
“There’s a power in you,” Muragan said, “and it grows with every trial.”
Vannek laughed.
The blood mage spoke sharply, as if to cut him off. “What other Naor leader slew a Dendressi queen?”
Vannek ceased his laughter partly because the statement’s truth reached him and partly because he recognized madness in the sound and didn’t like it.
As he and Muragan drew closer the exalts ceased their debate and watched them. They stood around a recumbent person, a figure either unconscious or dead.
All four looked to be in their midtwenties, two women and two men. One man’s uniform was splattered with dark stains that had to be blood, though it didn’t seem to be his. None carried weapons, and as Vannek stopped a few paces out, bared sword in his hand, he wondered if they’d try spell work.
They studied him less with fear than distaste, as though he were an unexpected guest turning up from a disfavored clan. Vannek wondered why they weren’t more angry at the sight of him. In the chaos of the fight they might not have seen him take the queen’s head.
The figure at their feet moved, sluggishly, then sat upright. She raised one hand to her head.
It was Varama, hair wild, helmet vanished. Vannek had hoped it was Rylin, or N’lahr. Any of the others, really, even Elenai.
But it was Varama, the blue-skinned one with the long chin and the odd curling hair. Varama, who had harassed them from the hidden recesses of Alantris and engineered the death of his younger brother and so many strong officers. Varama, who had burned Alantris rather than let Vannek rule. If not for her tenacious resistance, Syrik might yet live, and that thought, at last, roused an emotion that wrested a sudden breath from his lungs. He stood staring, without comment.
“What do you want, Naor?” the man in the bloodstained uniform asked Vannek.
“She’s seen the Goddess in her glory,” a short woman beside him said. “They’ve come to surrender to us.”
“No,” Vannek said flatly.
The exalts shifted uncomfortably.
“Don’t fight them now.” Varama’s high-pitched voice was gruff with fatigue and seemed aimed at him, rather than her countrymen. She pushed to her feet and stepped apart from the exalts, who gave her a wide berth. Varama bent to the ground and rose with a long, straight, and bloodied blade. It shook for a moment before the alten’s hand steadied. “The battle’s over.” Varama’s voice was high and clear, and rang like hard steel struck with a hammer. She retreated to Vannek’s side. She addressed him, though her eyes did not leave the exalts. “Is there anyone else?”
“No one alive,” Muragan said. “Why didn’t you escape with the others?”
“The portal was being closed from the other end. I had to hold it open.”
“Your ghost friend couldn’t keep it open?” Vannek asked.
Varama’s answer was clipped. “My ‘ghost friend’ wasn’t involved.”
“I saw the Goddess chase after some as they went for the portal,” Muragan said. “If you were holding it, how did you survive?”
“Apparently the portal was of far greater interest than I.” The alten didn’t bother elaborating.
“But if she didn’t hurt you,” Muragan persisted, “why were you lying on the ground?”
“I’ve never held open a portal,” Varama said. “I found it taxing.”
Muragan looked as if he planned to ask more questions, but Vannek interrupted. “Do you know where the Goddess is going?”
“Not with any degree of certainty, no.”
The bloodstained man spoke up with breathless fervor, sounding very much like a priest. “She’s gone forth to begin the cleansing, and to rework the realms so that all of them are paradises. Soon she will return, and lead us there. If you open your souls and swear allegiance, she may yet spare you.”
“Your reasoning is flawed,” Varama replied.
“What are you planning?” Vannek asked her, ignoring the fools.
Varama removed a rag from a waist pouch and carefully wiped down the steel. “I’m going to leave. I may need your assistance.” She turned to face the exalts, watching warily. She sheathed her weapon, then spoke to them as though they were reasonable. “While the Goddess has been restored, she is manifestly not the beneficent deity that you seem to have anticipated, as is readily apparent from her actions. She has slain my people as well as yours, indiscriminately.”
The deep-voice
d man replied. “Not all can achieve a perfect faith, yet we live. She favors us. She will return and restore the others.”
The alten pushed unruly hair back from her high forehead and tried again. “You have misplaced your trust. If the Goddess does return, she’s unlikely to display any greater degree of interest in your well-being that she already has.”
This time the other man spoke. “My faith is certain. The Goddess will return, and all truths shall be revealed. She will soothe our pains, vanquish our enemies, and make all lands into paradise.”
“We know that she will reward us,” the small woman declared. Her companion nodded beside her.
“Then I wash my hands of you,” Varama said. “You’re of no use to the realms. Or to anyone at all.” She turned to Vannek. “I’m going to leave. If you wish to accompany me, we need to gather supplies.”
“Where are you going?” Vannek asked.
“I’ll explain that later.” Varama moved off.
After searching the eyes of the exalts, Vannek determined they were unlikely to attack, and followed the alten, Muragan with him. He found himself staring at the back of the alten’s neck with the same intensity he had stared at the retreating demon and sneered, both at her, and at himself. Now was not the time for vengeance.
Muragan glanced over his shoulder at the exalts before speaking. “I think they’re too full of faith to challenge us.”
“They’re too full of fear,” Vannek said.
“I don’t think they’re afraid of us.”
“No, they’re afraid of acting without permission. They’ve been followers too long.”
Varama arrived at a pillared temple built into the hillside behind the statues.
She spoke to them. “Gather the supplies we need for travel.”
Vannek was no one’s follower, but rather than point this out, he sought explanation. “What will you be doing?”
“Looking for magical assistance.” She turned and headed into the dark temple recesses.
“What do you want to do, Lord General?” Muragan asked softly
“We will have to leave, and we will need supplies. We might as well work with her. I don’t think we’ll be any good at helping her with Dendressi sorcery.”
“She assumes she’s in charge.”
Vannek snorted. “If she’s our way out of here, she is. I don’t like her tone, but then I suppose she has as little reason to like us as we have her.”
Over the next half hour, the two of them searched among the fallen, recovering shoulder packs and wineskins. They then harvested the abundant fruits and some broad plant leaves they discovered to be not only edible, but delicious. Finally, they rounded up all the Altenerai mounts. They took bits from all of them so they could graze, and took saddles from all but the six they led back to the temple.
The moon climbed higher. Vannek munched on one of the supremely delicious golden fruits as he looked over at the nearby statues, idly wondering who they were, and who had built them. On his third bite he heard the click of Varama’s bootheels on the flagstones.
The alten spoke to them as she stepped out from the archway to the inner structure.
“Did you find any magic?” Muragan asked.
“Some,” Varama answered. “It’s hardly sufficient, but we shall have to make do.” Her eyes took in the pile of saddlebags Vannek and Muragan had gathered. “There looks to be ample food. You selected a variety, including nuts?”
“We did,” Muragan said.
“Did you find enough magic to get us back with the others?” Vannek asked.
“No. It will be more than challenging to form a portal here because the realm is … solid.”
“I noted that.” Muragan nodded and rubbed at his beard, black in the moonlight. “It feels even more substantial than the heart of Darassus. And most of the ambient magic is gone. I’m guessing the Goddess absorbed it.”
Varama eyed the mage keenly, as if reevaluating him. “Yes. I will have to attempt opening a portal once we reach the shifts.”
“How far away is that?” Vannek asked.
“Assuming that the map was roughly drawn to scale, we’re at least one full day’s ride from the border.”
“And what if you can’t open a portal there?” Vannek asked.
“Then we will have to travel the deep shifts. Come. Let’s saddle the horses.”
Vannek frowned at her back as the alten turned away.
He had little hope for the future, but for one idea. If they could neither link up with their people or get anywhere else, before the world ended he would give himself the satisfaction of killing Varama.
15
The Sorceress in the Night
Knowing N’lahr would only explain further if he felt safe to do so, Rylin didn’t press the commander for details, the least of which being how he could state so certainly Varama lived.
And so Rylin mastered his joy, though he could not quite contain his smile.
“Thank you for that,” he said.
N’lahr nodded minutely. “The Naor are going to start building catapults. I’ll look in on that, but you should thoroughly familiarize yourself with the fortress. Understand its defenses.” His dark eyes met Rylin’s, who understood that, once again, the commander meant more than he said. “I can think of no one better suited for that duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Rylin said. “What are the Naor planning with the catapults?”
“Anzat suggested they might be used against the Goddess. It’s humorous on the face of it, but perhaps not utterly stupid. Even a deity might find large rocks hurtling at her distracting, especially if she’s already harassed by magical attacks.”
Rylin concurred that the idea had some merit.
“Gather your information and report to me when you can,” N’lahr finished.
“Yes, sir.”
N’lahr brought his hand halfway up to his chest and then halted, as though he’d been struck by some brilliant idea. But he did not speak, nor move further.
“Commander?” Rylin asked.
N’lahr did not respond.
“Sir?”
N’lahr completed the salute as if nothing at all had gone wrong, and as if he himself were unaware of the delay.
Sadly, Rylin returned the gesture. “You had some sort of slowing episode there, Commander.”
“Did I?” he asked, then continued, without a hint of pleasure: “Excellent. I’m fine for now. You worry about your orders.”
Rylin didn’t argue. He supposed that the first place he should familiarize himself with was this room, so he remained behind when the commander departed.
Unsure of how much time he had, Rylin first approached the most obvious point of interest, Cerai’s office. He looked through the inner world as he drew close, finding magical threads draped about the door. To cursory examination they didn’t appear overly difficult to unravel, but he was reminded of the trap that had been sprung upon Thelar in the queen’s office.
Fortunately, there were alternate ways to gather information. He carefully sent threads through the wall. Judging from stray spell energies he encountered, Cerai regularly used magic in the space, which hardly surprised him. Most intriguing of all was a cylindrical object about the size of a spear haft. Its matrix was so perfectly shaped it had to have been built through magical means. As if to confirm its origin, sorcerous power lingered around it even though it produced none of its own.
No more answers were forthcoming from that examination, so he stepped from the door and prowled about the laboratory and desk. While there were well-ordered parchments with columns of numbers and notations in some of the cabinets, they made little sense. Some were measurements of distance and weight, so perhaps these were notes on fashioning this fortress. Cerai had almost certainly shaped this entire building herself, for the whole seamless structure reeked of her magic. Once again, the level of her power and skill bewildered him. Sooner or later, he knew, they would have to cross her, and he had no illusions about th
e ease of the coming fight.
For the next several hours, he devoted himself to not just learning the layout of the fortress, but its very makeup. Once he examined the underlying structure, he was pleased N’lahr had acted so cautiously during their earlier discussion, for he found evidence of spellthreads extending into every chamber in every hub of the hexagonal structure, all leading back to Cerai’s rooms, as spider silk traced to the center of a web. Most of the threads were inactive, but it was easy to guess that Cerai could innervate them at will and immediately monitor anything taking place within her fortress.
Five of the six wings, he discovered to his horror, were turned over to storing a vast selection of sorcerously frozen creatures from the five realms. Though the astonishing menagerie of predators and prey—mammals, lizards, amphibians, avians, and even insects and plants—fascinated him, it was also a monstrous reminder of Cerai’s character and capability, of which he was already abundantly, depressingly, aware.
He wandered nearly wherever he wished, apart from a closed chamber in a first-floor tower. Two guards were posted upon a bench outside it. Given his previous interactions with Cerai’s staff, he thought a direct approach would provide the information he needed, and he greeted them politely. “Hail, soldiers of the goddess.”
They climbed to their feet and stood straight. “Hail, Alten of the Ring,” one of them said.
“What are you guarding?” Rylin asked as if the answer was of no great import.
“The hearthstones of the goddess Cerai,” the other answered. Rylin decided against confirming this by looking too far through the inner world. Cerai had mentioned her soldiers were sensitive to magic and might perceive too much prying as hostile. Besides, he thought he sensed the hearthstones.
“Keep them safe,” he said, and they promised they would as he moved off.
The upper floors of the administrative wing of Cerai’s palace were mostly barracks and empty quarters, some of which were now populated by the gear of squires and Naor soldiers.
Rylin wandered the battlements, eyeing the troops stationed in each location and considering the line of sight in each direction. The spellthreads he detected throughout the building extended to the grounds, and, more sparsely, beyond. The only surprise was to the south, where he spotted Drusa and Lelanc lying in the shade of a hillside grove. He made a mental note to check in with them when he finished scouting.
When the Goddess Wakes Page 18
