A Cruel Wind

by Glen Cook

  “He’s mad,” said the Old Man. “He’ll keep on coming till he gets what he wants. Or dies.

  You

  should understand.”

  “How so?”

  “How many years to ruin Ilkazar?” And, in the back of his mind, the question still.

  And at what cost to yourself?

  The wizard flinched, turned away. “Too many, all wasted. And it’s been Hell’s own hound on my trail ever since. Yes, I guess I understand. But for a woman?”

  For what had he claimed vengeance on Ilkazar? A rhinoceros?

  “He loves me!”

  Both men turned. Nepanthe glared at them from the doorway, her face a mask of poorly controlled anger. Varthlokkur nodded. “Maybe so, though personally I’d bet on wounded pride.”

  Nepanthe’s thoughts were obvious. Of course he was coming for love. Harsh events still hadn’t broken the grip romanticism had on her mind, though its hold had begun slipping. “You suppose? You’ll learn supposition when he gets here!”

  But his remark had dampened her fire, Varthlokkur saw. “Nepanthe, Nepanthe, why can’t you be rational? Whether he kills me, or, as is more likely, I…” He let it trail off, saying instead, “Well, we don’t have to shout about it.”

  “You’ve kidnapped me, separated me from my husband, and you want me to be grateful? You think I should be reasonable about it? Why don’t

  you

  be reasonable? Give me some winter clothes and let me go.” She had tried to escape twice already. Twice she had been intercepted and gently returned to her room. “I promise to keep him from killing you.”

  Varthlokkur turned to hide his amusement. That was his due, wasn’t it? The wicked wizards of the romances always ended up spitted on a hero’s sword.

  The Old Man, far from amused, assumed the argument. “You just won’t understand, will you? This man, Varthlokkur, has spent four centuries waiting for you. Four centuries! Why? Because the Fates themselves say you should be his. Yet you’d defy them for so insignificant a thing as this… this actor and thief. What is he? What can he do?”

  “He can love me.”

  “Can he? Does he? How much of that was for Varthlokkur’s pay? And Varthlokkur himself, is he incapable of loving you?”

  “Can he love at all?” she demanded, though weakly. Her certainties were being undermined. Wicked doubt had begun to insinuate black tentacles through cracks in her bastions of faith. “The whole world knows what he is. The murderer of an entire city.”

  Angry himself, the Old Man smiled cruelly and snapped, “Dvar!”

  Nepanthe’s defiance wilted, folding in like a tulip blossom at nightfall. Ilkazar had been a city of antediluvian greed and wickedness. Any sense of justice had to agree that its doom hadn’t been undeserved. That wasn’t the case with Dvar, a little third-rate spear-carrier of a city, a mutual dependency of Iwa Skolovda and Prost Kamenets. Its single fame was a fierce, always-doomed devotion to the cause of its right to be mistress of its own affairs. Nepanthe, who had been so exhilarated the night that tiny state had been crushed, now shut up and dropped into a chair. She turned her back on the men.

  The Old Man stared at her. She was near tears. He had touched an emotional canker. And, once again, he saw why both her husband and Varthlokkur found her attractive. She was beautiful, though loneliness and fear were stains on her loveliness. She had been bravely defiant since her arrival, loudly certain of her impending rescue, never admitting a doubt that her husband would come. But now, he suspected, she had begun to realize that her Mocker was challenging

  Varthlokkur.

  She had cause to be frightened. Still, he had to admire her. Her fear was for her husband, not for herself. He watched her massage her right temple, caught a glimpse of the crystal tear she wanted hidden.

  Varthlokkur left the room. Mocker’s endless fight with the mountains had grown tedious.

  The Old Man concentrated on the mirror, ignored the woman. Soon he heard the rustle of fabric. She stepped past him and stared into the mirror from close up. “Why’re you so harsh?” he asked.

  “I should be thankful that he wrecked my home and killed my brothers?”

  “And dragged you through the mountains like a common slave,” the Old Man interjected. “You made the point earlier. No, I don’t expect you to be happy. But I

  would

  like you to keep an open mind about why. And to contradict you on one score. Your brothers are still alive, except Luxos, who more or less committed suicide.”

  “What? Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Desperation, maybe. He’s a great believer in destiny.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Consider: assume you’ve loved someone for centuries…”

  “Love?”

  “Love. Let me continue. Suppose you’ve been waiting for someone you love for three or four

  hundred

  years. Your husband, for instance. And, when that person, who had been promised you for so long, finally arrives, you get nothing but pain from him. Wouldn’t you try just about anything? Even a little cruelty? I’d bet that he hasn’t mentioned your brothers because he wants you to feel dependent. Like there’s no one else who cares. Why’d you reject him?”

  “I’m married. And happy with the husband I have.” It wasn’t a considered answer. In fact, the Old Man had the feeling that her marriage was a miracle in which she still didn’t entirely believe.

  “He courted you for twelve years before you ever met this Mocker. I wanted to know why you rejected him then.”

  She shrugged. “I have to admit that he was a perfectly behaved suitor. And I liked him. As much as I could any man. He really did do a lot for me. He helped me understand myself. More than he’ll ever know. I was grateful for that. But he was so

  old.

  And his name was Varthlokkur. I always thought he wanted to use me, for my Power.”

  “If he’d come to you young, with another name—what then? And, as to the Power, if he had wanted it, who was to stop him after his demonstration at Ilkazar? Have you no logic at all?”

  “I don’t know… If he’d come young, maybe. But I had other problems…” She shrugged. Then with a forced laugh, “No one ever accused me of being logical.”

  “Varthlokkur once had a servant who fell in love with him. For various reasons, he made himself young and married her. The point: he’s old by choice, not by necessity. And, despite whatever you’ve heard, or even have seen, he’s a kind, gentle man who abhors force and violence. Maybe it’s a reaction against the excesses of his youth. Tell me, has he ever treated you with anything less than kindness and respect?”

  “He kidnapped me!”

  The Old Man sighed. Full circle and back to that again. “Ignore that. That was my idea, and he did it under protest, for want of any better idea. Otherwise, he’d’ve gone on for years, mooning over you and getting nowhere.”

  “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess he treats me all right, but that’s a moot point now. I’m married.” She indicated the man in the mirror.

  “Let’s discuss realities. Varthlokkur, for your sake, has held back. He hasn’t done anything but block the road. Sooner or later, though, he’ll have to do something. This creature you call a husband is going to be dead pretty soon—unless he gives up. Either way, that part of your life is over. I’ll take care of it myself, if Varthlokkur doesn’t have the will.”

  “If you kill him, I’ll throw myself off the wall,” she replied softly. “If he turns back, I’ll cry a little before I jump. But he won’t give up.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic,” the Old Man retorted. But the thing was, he thought her capable of keeping her promise. She was proving to be an incurable romantic.

  Varthlokkur was tired. Tired of arguing with Nepanthe, tired of striving to maintain a grasp on Power that seemed to be waning, tired of battling the Fates or whatever malign forces were controlling his destiny. Most frustrating was the rec
ent diminution of his control of the Power. Even his best-conceived experiments were sputtering. There were moments when he considered evading events by cocooning himself in the Old Man’s deep sleep. He also considered suicide, but only in that brief and quickly rejected fashion which is a universal experience. Neither death, nor the long sleep, would serve his purpose. Only for Nepanthe had he lived so long; he would have what he wanted.

  He often paced the quiet loneliness of the Wind Tower, stretching himself on a rack of thought while searching for ways to reach Nepanthe. And he found ways, but rejected them because they ignored her consent. He wanted her to be aware, understanding, and accepting.

  Mocker also troubled him. He could be rid of the pest with a single, smashing magical blow, but, for the sake of peace with Nepanthe, he held back. Still, he had to do something soon. Defend himself he must.

  One afternoon he sat before the mirror, chin on fist, watching his enemy climb a mountain. He was sleepy-thoughtful, paying the mirror little heed. He drifted on a cloud of laziness. There was a mood on him, lethargic, and he felt better than he had in a long time. It was as if some off-the-scenes diplomat had arranged a brief truce with the Fates.

  A soft sound. The door opened behind him. Still he didn’t turn. He would allow nothing to break his mood.

  Light footsteps crossed the room, stopped behind him. Still he didn’t turn. His eyelids, suddenly unbearably heavy, closed. The footsteps moved to the mirror. He knew that Nepanthe was watching her husband. Here was another opportunity to present his case, but he refused it. He had no desire to sacrifice his mood on an altar of fruitless argument.

  He heard the rustle of her dress as she settled into the Old Man’s chair, thought he could detect the faint whisper of her breathing. In a moment of euphoric wish-fulfillment, he tried to imagine that breath in his hair, against his shoulder, as he remembered Marya’s. Memories stirred. The face of the imagined lover became that of his wife, and he drifted off on a pleasant daydream. Guilt nibbled at the edge of his mind. He should have allowed her another child. But no. What was that saying the Old Man had? “Children are hostages to Fate.” Or to anyone able to lay hands on them.

  Nepanthe’s soft cough brought him back. He cracked an eyelid, looked her way. She stared back nervously. “I don’t feel like arguing,” he said, closing the eye.

  “I don’t want to either,” she replied, her voice sending chills down his spine. “I just want to know why you can’t let me go.”

  “You see?” Varthlokkur said with a sigh. “Here’s one starting. I’ve told you why a hundred times, but you don’t hear me. If I tell you again, you’ll say it’s not so, and still want a reason. What’s the point? Go away and let me snooze, woman. Let me be a tired old man for a day.”

  Nepanthe shifted in her chair, frowned. Briefly, she remembered what the Old Man had said, wondered about Varthlokkur’s looks as a young man. She suspected he would be quite handsome, hawkish, rather like that man bin Yousif. “All right,” she said. “For the sake of argument—oh, what a miserable choice of words!—we’ll say that you’ve told me the truth. What’re you planning to do?”

  He opened both eyes, fixed her with his stare. She stared back as defiantly as ever. “What am I going to do? Do you really care?” A little sharp, that. “Nothing. I’ll just react. To you. To him.” Pointing to the mirror, “If he keeps coming, I’ll have to defend myself. Sometime soon now. As for you, time will decide.”

  Nepanthe stirred nervously, stared at her husband. Her face paled a little. Varthlokkur assumed she was thinking of his Power.

  “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he continued. “But you two, by defying the Fates, are forcing me to. For you, the Fates and Norns bend. For me they’re inflexible.”

  “The Fates! The Norns! That’s all I ever hear around here. Can’t you be honest? Blame things on yourself? You’re the one causing all the trouble.”

  “See? There you go, just like I said. I tell you, I’m following a foreordained course. I

  must

  do what I do because I’m a pawn of Destiny. The sooner you realize that you’re one, too, the sooner we’ll finish this unpleasantness.”

  “There’s no argument that can turn me away from

  him,

  ” she snapped. “He’s my husband. Nothing can change that. I won’t let it—and the Fates, or whatever, be damned.”

  “Not even death?” Varthlokkur asked. “He’ll die in a day or two. For your sake I’ve given him time to think and back down. But pretty soon, if he’s still coming, I’ll stop him.”

  “I’ll jump off the wall!”

  “No you won’t. The divinations say you’ll live a long time yet.”

  “Divinations! Mummery!”

  Though his skills were in question, Varthlokkur was too tired to fight. Quietly, he responded, “Nepanthe, I’ve performed divinations for centuries and I haven’t yet seen one proven wrong. I’ve seen errors in interpretation, human errors, but never false predictions. Those old divinations are becoming reality today. You’re living at the impact point of an arrow of destiny loosed four hundred years ago. Believe it or not, whichever you want, but be warned. Sometime in the next few days you’ll make a decision the Fates have left to you alone. On it will hinge my future, yours, your husband’s, and possibly that of empires. Really. I’ve seen. When you decide, please, and I’ll beg on my knees if I have to to get you to do it, be cool and logical. For once, just this precious once, put emotion aside and

  think

  before you start talking.”

  Nepanthe shuddered. There was enough strength in his tone to convince her that he believed what he had said. “What decision?”

  “On my proposal.”

  “How could that effect anybody but you and me and Mocker? Don’t give me any more of your smooth tongue. You already know my answer.”

  “Do I? Do you? Maybe. But things change. Moment by moment. You might think it’s decided, but there’re days yet before it becomes irrevocable. I beg you, when the time comes, consider with your mind, not your heart.” That he hadn’t as yet shown her his necromantic arguments didn’t bother him. He had completely overlooked the fact that she didn’t know as much as he.

  “I won’t be your woman.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m married.”

  Varthlokkur sighed. Round full circle and back to that pointless argument yet again. Piqued, he snapped, “You won’t be when I get rid of that cretin…” He groaned. The destroying, hurting madness was threatening to claim him again. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  “Touch him and I’ll kill you!”

  He was startled. This was a different Nepanthe. Anger gave way to curiosity. He studied her face, searching for the truth behind her threat. Ah. She didn’t mean it. She was answering his spite with bluster of her own. “I doubt it.” And yet, it wasn’t impossible. Precautions would have to be taken. A sad business, this.

  The Old Man, precariously supporting a silver tray on one hand, eased into the chamber. He frowned as sharp-as-sabers words sliced the air. They had started hurting one another again. “Does this have to go on all the time?” he asked. “The vitriol’s beginning to bore me. My father—ah, yes, I did have one, and you needn’t look so surprised—had a saying: ‘If you can’t say something nice, keep your damned mouth shut.’”

  “It can stop anytime!” Nepanthe snapped. “Get this bearded lecher to let me go.”

  “There must be some invisible barrier between you two. No common concepts, or something. Or maybe you just won’t listen to each other. I’ve got an idea.” The Old Man’s voice became like silk, like honey, like candy-covered daggers. “A way for him to get through to you, Nepanthe. I’ll work a spell on your mind. You’ll

  have

  to do what’s necessary.”

  Varthlokkur flashed him a hot, angry look. Unperturbed, he smiled back wickedly, and the more so when he saw that Nepanthe had been shocked into silen
ce. Numbly, she took a cup of wine from the tray. She asked Varthlokkur, “Could he do that?”

  “Easily. And your opinion of your husband would become lower than mine. His touch would, literally, make you ill.”

  She showed every evidence of terror. “What a wicked, horrible thing… Why haven’t you done it, then?”

  “I wonder, too,” the Old Man growled. “It’d save a lot of trouble…”

  “And I said that I don’t want a slave,” Varthlokkur snarled back. “I want a whole woman.”

  “But you haven’t gotten the ghost of that, have you?” the Old Man asked with more false sweetness. “What you’re getting is heartaches from a bitch with a brick head… Damn! Now you’ve got me doing it!”

  Varthlokkur and Nepanthe stood open-mouthed, shocked. The Old Man shook his head. He had just shown Nepanthe that their unity was little more than a facade anymore, that there were tensions growing between them. She might make little of that now, but later… Right now his words hurt, he suspected, more than anything Varthlokkur could have said. She gulped her wine, then hurried out. Her shoulders were slumped.

  “A beautiful woman,” said the Old Man. “Loyal and spirited. I’m sorry. Frustration.”

  “I understand. How often have I forced myself not to say the same things?” He visibly controlled his own anger. This as yet unbroached dissension between them had to be held in abeyance. The crisis was so close now… He would need even halfhearted allies.

  “It might do her some good. Start her thinking. Who knows? There’s a proverb in my collection. It’s one of the oldest: ‘You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs.’ And speaking of eggs to crack, what’re we going to do about her husband? He’s getting too close.” A change of subject might direct both their frustrations into useful work.