Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (36 page)

           
Bracht had the grace then to look
embarrassed, and Ochen continued: "Cennaire was not then what she is now.
The future is a many-branching road, each turning taken leading to another, all
of it complex beyond ready understanding, easy discernment. And even when you
spoke with spaewives, Tharn's dreaming clouded the occult plane, likely dimming
their vision. I believe they could not see Cennaire's role then."

           
Katya, grave, asked, "So you
tell us Cennaire's some part in our quest?"

           
"Have I not said it?"
Ochen nodded. "I believe it so, but as we speak honestly now, I tell you I
cannot be sure."

           
"How shall you—we—be
sure?"

           
"She is now what she is,"
the wazir answered, "and fixed in that state while her heart lies ensorcelled
in Nhur-jabal. Therefore a scrying may be had—I suggest we continue on to
Pamur-teng and consult a gijan there."

           
"Save you influence her
prophecy," said Bracht, doubtful.

           
"That, even the wazir-narimasu
cannot do." Ochen laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, warrior, had I the
time I'd explain it to you; though I wonder if you could understand."

           
"Therefore I must trust
you?"

           
"What other choice have
you?" asked Ochen, sharp again. "Think you truly that I league with
those madmen who'd own the Arcanum, see the Mad God raised?"

           
"I do not," said Katya,
and turned toward the Kern. "Put up your dirk, Bracht—what Ochen says
makes sense."

           
For a while the Kern met her gaze,
then he grunted, and sheathed the dagger. "And this?" He gestured at
the wrapped mirror. "What do we do with it?" ,

           
Cennaire spoke then, hope rising
inside her: "Why do you not hold it?"

           
Bracht shook his head. "Not I.
I'd have nothing to do with Anomius's creations."

           
"Give it to me, then,"
Katya suggested, and smiled. "Save you no longer trust me."

           
"Take it." Bracht tossed
her the small bundle. "You I trust. But ..."

           
His eyes encompassed Cennaire and Ochen.
Katya tucked the mirror beneath her hauberk and turned toward the revenant.
"Do you prove our enemy," she said, "I shall break this thing.
And be it in my power, I shall slay you."

           
Cennaire ducked her head in
acknowledgment. It seemed a weight was lifted from her, for all Calandryll
still refused to meet her eyes, though when she spoke, her words were directed
at him.

           
"I'll not betray you," she
said. "I've learned from you, and be it in my power I'll aid you all I
can, even does Anomius destroy me for it. I'd own my heart again, be that
possible. You need not trust me, but I tell you that I'll not betray you.
You've my word on that."

           
"Your word?"

           
Bracth's voice cut bitter into her
burgeoning hope and she looked to Calandryll for some measure of support, but
he was sunk in gloom, staring at the ground between his feet, and that cut
deeper still.

           
OCHEN left them then, called to the
funeral pyres by Chazali, that he might perform the rituals for the dead. The
wazir's absense afforded the questers a chance to talk among themselves that
was entirely unwelcome to Calandryll, who felt his mind, his soul, benumbed by
what he had learned. He had sooner be left alone, or talk more with the
sorcerer, seeking resolution of the bewilderment, the confusion, raging inside
him. That he loved Cennaire, he could not deny: it was a fact that burned
through all the chaos of surrounding knowledge. What repercussions it might
have, he dared not contemplate, nor knew what that love made of him. A monster?
A necrophile? Surely Ochen had said she wore flesh, that red blood coursed her
veins, that she was capable of human feelings,- and yet that blood was pulsed
by Anomius's magic, the bones and muscles beneath that flesh imbued with a
terrible strength. Her lips had tasted soft when he kissed her
_;
but
was that softness the product of sorcery? She had promised her aid, even at
risk of her creator's wrath, at risk of her own destruction; but could that
promise be trusted? Bracht had suggested he was entranced— could that be true?
Was he deceived by the woman? Did magic beguile his heart, just as it did hers?
He felt despondency settle on him, bleak and grey as the spell Rhythamun had
left behind in the keep, robbing him of purpose, leeching resolution. Into his mind
came memories of tracts read in Secca, dissertations found in the palace
libraries, of vampires, the ungodly allure they exercised on the living.

           
Was he thus seduced? Was there some
weakness, some darkness, in him that was drawn to Cennaire? Reluctantly, he
looked toward her—and found he saw only a beautiful woman, the great brown eyes
that met his grave, perhaps even afraid. But of what? Certainly not of his
blade, for she had touched that and the power in it had left her unharmed. Of
Ochen's magic, then, should he call upon the wazir to destroy her? But he had
already spoken against that, in her defense. Yet still she was subdued, almost
timid, he thought, and in that moment she seemed to him only a woman, born
down, afraid, and he wished that he could smile and reassure her.

           
He could not, then, only turn his
face away, helpless, starting as Bracht said, "Do we speak? Alone?"

           
Unthinking, he gestured around, at
the kotu-zen grouped about the pyres, chanting their responses to Ochen's
prayers, and said, "We are alone."

           
"Aye?"

           
Bracht's eyes hung cold and blue on
Cennaire, and she ducked her head, rose, and said quietly, "I'll not
intrude."

           
She smoothed her dirtied leathers
and walked a distance off, solitary, head hung. Bracht watched her go, then rose
himself, beckoning Calandryll and Katya to follow him, walking to where the
horses cropped grass, the stallion snickering a greeting, tossing its head as
the Kern stroked the glossy neck.

           
Soft, glancing to where Cennaire
stood, he asked, "Think you she can hear us?"

           
"She's eyes that cut the
night," said Katya. "Likely she's ears to match."

           
"What matter?" asked
Calandryll dully. "Katya holds the mirror, Ochen stands close—what if she
does overhear?"

           
"She'll know our every
move," the Kern replied. "Nor I am yet convinced we can trust the
sorcerer."

           
"Dera!" Calandryll sighed,
weary. "As he said— what other choice have we?"

           
"That's what I'd discuss,"
said Bracht. "I like this situation not at all."

           
Nor
I, Calandryll thought. I’d far sooner Cennaire were just a woman, not magic’s
creation. Dera, but I wonder if I'd rather we’d never found her. Or I not love
her. But I do, and I think I cannot change that, be it for worse or better.
Aloud, he asked, "What would you do about it?"

           
"We might quit their company,"
Bracht said.

           
"And lose ourselves in this
unknown land?" Katya shook her head. "Ochen's yet my trust, and I
believe he told it true when he spoke of war raging here. How should we gain
entrance to Anwar- teng, save in his company?"

           
"And there's the gijan,"
said Calandryll. "Do we consult her when we reach Pamur-teng, then perhaps
our doubts may be resolved."

           
"If we can trust her,"
Bracht countered. "Cennaire's Anomius's creature. Made what she is by him,
and he's surely our enemy. And Ochen knew that, and concealed his
knowledge."

           
Calandryll nodded, struggling to
rise above the despondency that gripped him. "How should we have
reacted," he demanded, "had Ochen told us what he knew?"

           
Bracht frowned, a hand fastened on
the falchion's hilt. Katya said, "We'd surely have left her behind. Or
looked to slay her."

           
"Better we had," the Kern
muttered.

           
"Ochen believes she's a role in
this quest." Calandryll shrugged. "And whatever her reasons, she did
save me."

           
"Ahrd!" Bracht's hand left
the falchion to shape an angry fist. At his back, the stallion snorted,
nostrils flaring. "We've talked that through—she obeyed her master. No
more than that!"

           
Calandryll felt a pressure on his
shoulder and turned to find the chestnut gelding nuzzling at his hair. The animal's
placid affection was somehow comforting, and he rubbed absently at the velvet
muzzle, saying, "Perhaps,- perhaps not. I know only I was mightily glad of
what she did. Perhaps she did act out of"—he paused—"love."

           
"How can a thing without a
heart feel love?" Bracht grunted.

           
"Ochen said she yet has
feelings," said Katya. "And even did she act on Anomius's orders when
she went to Calandryll's aid she might have fled, after. Think on it,
Bracht—whichever course she took, she must have known she should be
revealed."

           
"You say you trust her?"
asked the Kern.

           
"I say I am not sure,"
returned the Vanu woman. "Ochen, aye. Him I trust, and he believes she's a
part to play—so I cannot but wonder if he be right, and Cennaire becomes a
player in this design."

           
Bracht shook his head in helpless
frustration. "I say we can trust none of them," he declared.

           
"And you'd ride out
alone?" Katya asked. "We three, across all these Jesseryte lands?
With warring armies in our path? I think we'd not last long."

           
"And be my doubts sound?"
Bracht fixed her with an angry stare. "How long shall we last then?"

           
Katya offered no immediate answer.
Instead, she turned to Calandryll. "How say you?" she wondered.

           
He shrugged, wishing himself
elsewhere, in some safe place, away from dubiety, from decisions and choices,-
knowing even as the thought formed that such refuge was denied him.

           
"I think," he said slowly,
painfully assembling thoughts that raced and fluttered like light- bewildered
moths, "that we cannot succeed without Ochen, without the kotu-zen. I know
that Ochen's magic joined Cennaire to save me from the uwagi—from Rhythamun—and
that otherwise I should be dead. I see no choice save to go on in their
company."

           
"Do you trust Ochen?"
Bracht asked.

           
Calandryll thought a moment longer,
then nodded: "Aye. And listen—even be your doubts true, surely he'll look
to see us safe along the way. Save you doubt everything we've done, we are the
three scried. Save the spaewives and the Younger Gods themselves deceived us,
we are the three. Therefore, even does Ochen work some subtle betrayal beyond
my comprehension—beyond my belief!—he must still seek to deliver us safe to our
destination."

           
Doubt lingered in the Kern's eyes:
Katya said, "This is logic, Bracht; irrefutable. Like Calandryll, I've
faith in Ochen, but even were he treacherous, he must aid us. Just as Anomius
would have us deliver the Arcanum, so should Ochen."

           
Bracht studied them both awhile, a
hand tangling absently in the stallion's mane, then ducked his head. "So
be it," he allowed. "There's sense in what you say, and so I'll trust
him for the nonce."

           
"And Cennaire?" asked
Calandryll.

           
"Her not at all," answered
the Kern. "And I tell you—does she turn against us, I'll take that sword
from you and trust in Dera's blessing to destroy her."

           
Calandryll looked into the cold
hardness of the Kern's eyes and lowered his head; brief, a sad acknowledgment.
"You'll find no need," he said hoarsely. "Be she traitor, I'll
look to slay her myself."

           
Doubt flickered in the steel of Bracht's
gaze, but Katya motioned him to silence and set a hand, comforting, on
Calandryll's arm. "The gods willing, there'll be no need."

           
Her voice was soft and he looked
into her grey eyes and smiled wan thanks for the commiseration he saw there,
aware the while that behind that sympathy lay a determination firm as Bracht's.
Should the time come, his would be the last hand turned against Cennaire: his
comrades, unhindered by gentle emotions, would not hesitate. He nodded in mute
understanding.

           
"This shall not be a pleasant
ride, I think," he murmured.

           
Bracht grunted tacit agreement.
Katya said, "Let us hope it may be swift. Perhaps, in Pamur-teng, our
doubts shall be resolved."

           
Aye,
perhaps yours shall, Calandryll thought. But mine? Does the gijan assure you of
Cennaire's integrity, then you may rest easier in her company.

           
But met How can I rest easy knowing
I love a woman undeactt

           
He turned away before Katya's
obvious compassion grew hurtful, going back to the fire, where he filled a cup
with tea, listless, wanting some occupation of his hands; wishing his mind
might be similarly occupied. Dera, but the journey would be unendurable while
these doubts circled, like vultures awaiting the final weakening of a stricken
beast.

           
He gasped as sudden pain exploded in
his hand, looking down to see the cup shattered, droplets of blood oozing from
between his tight-clenched fingers. He opened his fist, shards falling, and
began to pick the china splinters from his palm.

           
"Here, let me."

           
He turned to find Cennaire at his
side, taking his injured hand as she spoke, her fingers delicate, precise, as
they plucked the jagged fragments loose. For an instant he was prompted to
snatch his hand away, but she glanced up then, and in her eyes he saw a plea
for understanding and stilled the impulse. She smiled briefly and bent to her
task, so that the rising sun struck sparks of raven brilliance from her hair
and he smelled the scent of it, pine and woodsmoke mingled, and felt himself
dizzied with confusion.

           
He sat immobile, benumbed, leaving
her to perform her surgery, seeing Bracht and Katya come up and halt, staring.
The Kern's eyes were filled with disgust, as if he watched a victim go willing
to a vampire's caress. Katya's were clouded, enigmatic. She spoke softly to
Bracht, her mouth close to his ear, and they moved past, to stand closer to the
kotu-zen. Calandryll felt a soft pressure, a warmth against his palm, and
looked down to find Cennaire sucking at his wounds.