Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (9 page)

           
Calandryll said, "Aye, it would
seem so."

           
Bracht sniffed, grunted, thought a
moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps," he allowed, unconvinced.

           
"What harm in it?" asked
Calandryll.

           
"What harm in any wizard's
workings?" answered Bracht. "What other gramaryes might he not work
on us?"

           
"Perhaps I've the answer to
your doubt," offered Ochen, and tapped a nail against the hilt of
Calandryll's sword. "This blade has power, no? I feel it—the strength of a
goddess, of Dera herself, is in this sword. Were I to attempt fell magic, to
deceive you, would the blade not reveal my treachery?"

           
Bracht, Katya, Cennaire, all turned
their eyes to Calandryll for answer. He pondered a moment, unsure, then slowly
said, "It may be so. Certainly it revealed"—he was about to say
"Rhythamun," amended that to—"the creature that possessed Mor-
rach."

           
Bracht shook his head, not yet
willing to forget long-held prejudice, gestured at the glyphs marking the
walls. "We sit surrounded by his sortilege," he argued. "Might
that not overwhelm even Dera's gift?"

           
"You flatter me." Ochen
chuckled, face crinkling. "I am not so great a mage as to overcome the
power of a goddess. And these sigils are for all our protection."

           
"Test him," suggested
Katya. "Surely, if his magic is fell the blade must reveal it."

           
Still Bracht remained doubtful, but
Calandryll nodded, saying, "Aye—do you submit to such proof?"

           
"Happily," Ochen conceded.

           
Unthinking, Calandryll reached
toward the sword, and a stool fell clattering, his hand halted by Tem- chen's
blade. Dera, but the man was near as fast as Bracht, the curved steel glinting
in the circle of sunlight, the edge a razor across his wrist. Chazali, too, was
on his feet, sword drawn, raised ready to attack. Bracht was no slower, coming
upright swift as a flighted arrow, plunging forward, left hand slapping
Temchen's blade aside, the right grasping the falchion's hilt. Calandryll saw
hairs, cut from his wrist, drift in the circle of sunlight, Chazali moving to
direct a blow at Bracht's head, Katya rising, a storm building in her grey eyes
as she, too, readied for battle.

           
"Stop! Enough!" Ochen's
voice was no longer a dry-leafed rustling, but thunder, booming loud,
authoritative, brooking no disobedience. "In Horul's name—by the names of
all the gods!—are we squabbling children?"

           
There was such power in his command
that the words fell like blows, numbing. Temchen, Chazali, froze. Bracht
sprawled across the table, the drawn falchion still in his hand. Calandryll was
surprised to see the old man was seated, not on his feet.

           
"Sit!"

           
It was a command addressed to the
Jesserytes: they obeyed. Bracht was slower, and Calandryll said, "Aye,
rest easy," waiting until the Kern sank back, tanned features morose.
Katya touched his arm, ducking her head in agreement, urging him to calm.
Calandryll glanced toward Temchen and Chazali, to Ochen, who nodded, and drew
the straightsword.

           
He turned the blade to the sorcerer
and said, "Do you take it then? In both your hands."

           
"Be I liar, may the goddess destroy
me," said Ochen, and set his hands firm on the steel.

           
Calandryll studied the gnarled face,
concentrated his will, seeking knowledge of the sword. Surely, did Ochen lie, were
he false, the blade would know it and show him for a betrayer. He felt nothing:
the ancient showed no discomfort. Calandryll said, "I deem him
truthful."

           
"Which is good enough for
me," said Katya, adding, softer, "for now, at least."

           
Ochen let go his hold and Calandryll
sheathed the blade, looking to Bracht. The Kern shrugged, not speaking, and
Calandryll said, "I say we allow this gramarye."

           
"Aye," Katya agreed.

           
Bracht shrugged again, which
Calandryll took as acceptance. It did not occur to him to ask Cennaire's
opinion, nor did he see the shadow of alarm that passed across her face as he
returned his gaze to Ochen and said, "So be it—work this magic."

           
The ancient smiled and rose, his
eyes level with Calandryll's mouth. "I think," he said, smiling,
"that you had best"seat yourself."

           
"And hold your sword,"
Bracht muttered.

           
"If you wish." Ochen's
response was negligent, confident.

           
Calandryll drew the sword closer,
slipping it · once more from the scabbard, settling it across his thighs, right
hand firm on the hilt, left loose about the edges, and Ochen stepped toward
him.

           
The long-nailed hands were dry and
warm as they touched his cheeks, papery. He let them tilt back his head so that
he looked into the nearhidden eyes. Ochen spoke, the words in a tongue unknown,
and the eyes—a yellow, Calandryll briefly realized, akin to the feline shades
that seemed common among the Jesserytes, but brighter, more golden—expanded,
glowing, until all else was lost in hues of swirling light. He caught the scent
of almonds, and thought an instant of Menelian, in Vishat'yi, then of nothing,
for he plunged into the light and it consumed him, filling him.

           
There was darkness for a moment
then, and he shook his head, as does a man waking from sleep, unsure how long
the mage had held him, blinking as his vision cleared, seeing Ochen stood back,
smiling. He glanced at the sword: straight, edged steel, no hint of magic in
it, and looked a question at Bracht, at Katya.

           
Both shook their heads. The woman
said, "There was no sign."

           
"I felt nothing," he
replied, and wondered why she frowned.

           
Because, he realized with a shock,
he used Jesseryte words, and said the same again, in the Envah.

           
"A most useful gramarye,"
she murmured. "A gift worth the accepting."

           
"Then take it," Ochen
said, and touched her face.

           
Calandryll watched, intently, the
words the sorcerer spoke no more comprehensible than before, the almond scent
as pungent. No light, though, this time, only the small, old man standing over
the taller woman, her flaxen hair streamed back as she tilted her head,
accepting. It did not take long, no more than a few heartbeats before he
released her, and she sat a little while, seeming confused, rubbing at her
eyes. Then she smiled and said, "I feel no different."

           
Like Calandryll, she spoke in the
Jesseryte language.

           
Bracht flinched as Ochen came toward
him, body stiff with tension, distaste writ clear on his lean features, but
still he submitted, allowing the mage to instill the gift of tongues.

           
"Was that so painful?"
Ochen asked gently, and Bracht shook his head, answering, "Tak,"
which in Jesseryte was "no."

           
The sorcerer went then to Cennaire,
who flinched like Bracht, so that Calandryll thought her fearful and said,
seeking to reassure her, "There's neither pain nor harm."

           
He could not know she feared
revelation, feared that Ochen must look into the depths of her being and expose
her. She thought a moment of resisting—and knew that, too, must reveal her,
close to panic then, contemplating flight. To where, though? How far might she
get, two armored men across the table, more outside? And the mage close.
Menelian she had defeated—would Ochen see that? See the blood on her hands?—but
he had contested alone: did she resist this wizard, fight him, might Calandryll
not take up that goddess-blessed blade and use it on her? That, she thought,
she could not defeat.

           
Then gentle hands rested warm
against her skin. Almost, she clutched the wrists; might, she knew, have
snapped them, but Ochen spoke, soft, whispering.

           
"We each do what we must; play
the part assigned us. But fate's road makes many turnings, there are many
branches. Fear not, your decision must be later come."

           
Somehow she knew that she alone of
all within the chamber heard him, and felt a calm descend, confident—though she
knew not how—that did he pierce the secret lodged beneath her ribs, he would
not speak of it. At least, not yet; perhaps never. She forced her trembling
body to relax and gave herself up to his magic.

           
"You see?" Calandryll was
smiling at her. "Was it so hard?"

           
"Tak," she answered.
"Jo ke-amrisen," and returned his smile, relieved.

           
Ochen studied her a moment,
inscrutable, then nodded as if satisfied, turning away to resume his seat.

           
"We may now converse
freely," he announced. "Let us properly introduce ourselves, as
civilized folk do."

           
He performed a seated bow, indicating
that the four—guests or still prisoners, they were not yet entirely
certain—should speak first.

           
One by one they named themselves in
full, which took no great time, and then Ochen said formally, "I am, as
you know, Ochen. By full title, I am Ochen Tajen Makusen, of Pamur-teng, home
hold of the clan Makusen. I hold the title of wazir—sorcerer and priest of
Horul."

           
He bowed again and Chazali came to
his feet, armor rattling, head ducking in ritual greeting, a hand slapping his
breastplate in formal salute.

           
"I am Chazali Nakoti Makusen of
the clan Makusen, kiriwashen of Pamur-teng."

           
Again, he bowed, and resumed his
place as Temchen rose, performing the same ritual salute.

           
"I am Temchen Nakoti Makusen of
the clan Makusen. I am kutushen of Pamur-teng."

           
The titles were unfamiliar, even
granted Ochen's gift of comprehension, military ranks as best the four could
understand. The kiriwashen was the senior, commander of thousands, the title
meant, the kutushen leader of a hundred. Calandryll, diplomatic, asked, "How
shall we address you?" even as he wondered what brought officers of such
status to a keep that could surely not hold a garrison of more than a century.

           
"With honored guests it is our
custom that the birth-name be used," said Ochen. "Shall that suit?"

           
Calandryll answered in the
affirmative, the tension eased somewhat, but not yet dissipated, trust a
promise yet to be grasped firm. Bracht sat silent, his face set in controlled
lines, as if he was not yet convinced. Cennaire was thoughtful. Katya appeared
better at ease, and asked, "Shall you now explain?"

           
"As best I may," Ochen
returned, and gestured at the glyphs covering the walls. "These, as you
surmise, are sigils of gramarye; set to defend us against such prying as my
kind command. Within this chamber, none may know what we say or do."

           
"Why?" Bracht demanded.

           
Ochen sighed, fingers entwining, his
silvered head lowering a moment, as if he collected thoughts, then: "We
embark on a lengthy tale. Shall it be told over wine?"

           
Without awaiting a reply, he nodded
to Temchen, who rose and strode to the door, calling out that wine and cups be
brought. They waited until a man returned, bearing a tray of lacquered wood
that he set down on the table, bowing low and withdrawing. When the door was
closed behind him, Temchen took the golden jug and filled the seven porcelain
cups with a dark yellow liquid. Calandryll saw that Bracht waited until the
Jesserytes had sipped before tasting the vintage,- and that his reticence was
noticed by Ochen. For his own part, he drank readily enough, not anticipating
treachery, and found the wine good, rich, and slightly sweet.

           
"You know my land as the
Forbidden Country." Ochen set down his cup, nodding thanks as Ternchen
poured another measure. "Few venture here— visitors, wanderers, are
discouraged. Those merchants trading out of Lysse—what few Vanu folk come down
the coast—are confined in Nywan, the Closed City: we have our reasons for such
secrecy. Those reasons are our history and, I ofttimes think, our curse.

           
"Some claim our land was shaped
and we put here by the First Gods. This may be true—I do not know—only that to
south and west the Kess Imbrun is a barrier few attempt; our eastern coastline
is bleak: little reason for any to make landing. And to the north lies the
Borrhun-maj." He paused, sipping wine, wiping delicately at his long
mustache. "Beyond those mountains . . . some say the world ends,* others
claim the First Gods dwell there . . . none know for sure because none go
there. That passage, its attempting even, is forbidden on pain of death.
Though"—a rueful chuckle—"such edict is hardly needful, the
Borrhun-maj being impassable."