Color Mage (Book 1) (22 page)

“There is no need for you to have done anything. His Majesty is a young King with great personal power, and has never been subject to much discipline. You must remember you are the adult here, and draw upon your patience.”

“No doubt.” Callo let Si’lan draw him along the corridor. His thoughts swirled, as the conversation with the King replayed itself in his head. Then he realized he had no idea where Si’lan was taking him. “Where are we going?”

“To Som’ur’s temple, as His Majesty commanded. To be introduced to the god. All ku’an worship Ur’brok’s son Som’ur.”

Callo sighed and withdrew his arm from Si’lan’s hold. “You are rushing me along as if I am a steer going to slaughter.”

Si’lan’s answering grin was malicious. All Callo’s defenses snapped into place.

“If you wish for me to instruct you, as a ku’an, you must be accepted by Som’ur. He weeds out pretenders and false motivations.”

“How does he do this?”

“The new ku’an stays in his temple overnight. Som’ur comes to him. If the ku’an is free of impure motives, he lives.”

“And that boy—excuse me, His Majesty—has been through this procedure?”

Si’lan nodded. “He would not be King, if he had not been accepted by Som’ur. None of us could rule this land without his sanction, especially as few as we are.”

Callo wondered how stringent the god’s requirements were, if such an idiot as Ar’ok had lived through the test. “I have worshiped Jashan since I was ten. Why would Som’ur let me live, since I owe my life to Jashan?”

Si’lan began walking again. Callo followed. “If you do not complete the vigil, we will have no choice but to assume your purpose here is espionage. Why should we give up our secrets to a foreign ku’an that is not vouched for by our god?”

“I don’t want any of your damn secrets. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then, why? To find your father?”

“I’d like to know who he was. Why a Ha’lasi mage went to such trouble to sire me. I most certainly am not here as a spy for King Martan.”

“But King Martan is your uncle.”

“Yes.”

“Surely you must understand we cannot simply trust you. You have no choice, Lord Callo. I will escort you to the temple – there is one here, in the castle, and a priest to pray over you.”

“I will not go. It is suicide.” Callo stopped, began to turn around. Si’lan gestured and Callo was surrounded by armed guards. He reached for his sword, but, of course, he had not been armed in the King’s presence. He took a deep breath and met Si’lan’s expressionless gaze.

“I think you will go,” Si’lan said. “After you have recovered, we will discuss what you need to know.”

The guards escorted Callo down the hallway. Si’lan stood in the corridor, watching him go.

The guards left him at the door to Som’ur’s temple, closing and locking it behind him. The temple was a small room with six chairs spaced in a circle around a small dais. The dais, covered in gold leaf, held what looked to Callo like a live human heart, but much larger than he would have expected such a thing to be. The organ hung suspended above a polished base, pulsing. He stood there looking at this improbable centerpiece, then reached out to touch the plinth, but a barrier he could not see stopped his finger before it could come anywhere near.

The heart beat. Callo frowned at it. Why was such a thing on the dais? Was it something to be venerated? Or was it simply a focus for meditation? It looked real. Could it be Som’ur’s heart?

He did not know why he had expected a temple of Som’ur to be large, for the only worshippers would be ku’an, and there were few of those in Ha’las. According to legend, all descended in some way from the god, similar to the way the
righ
all claimed descent from Valotnor. He looked around; the walls were covered with freeform curves in more gold. The ku’an had spent a fortune on this tiny room, money he knew the poor island kingdom could not afford. The overall effect was both rich and barbaric. He looked up and around and saw, partially hidden among the gold-leaf decorations halfway up the tall ceiling, a gap. It was a spy-hole. From the space on the other side of that hole, the ku’an’an, or anyone else, could observe what happened to him here.

He sighed and sat on one of the chairs. A long night lay ahead. He had no idea how Som’ur would manifest himself, but he doubted a man who had sworn oaths to Jashan would survive the night.

The lock rattled. He turned to look as the door opened. Callo tensed, ready to use this entrance as an opportunity to escape what he expected to be certain death from a jealous Ha’lasi god, but the man who entered was flanked by three of the armed guards. They were taking no chances.

The man who entered wore the gold eye insignia of the King. He sat next to Callo, looking at him curiously with the ku’an’s gold eyes.

“Another ku’an,” Callo said. “You are everywhere.”

“There are actually very few of us,” the man answered. “If you survive this night, we will welcome you very gladly indeed. I am Wan’tal, Som’ur’s priest.”

“Callo ran Alkiran.”

The priest nodded. “I am to tell you what to expect. You will spend the night here. At some point Som’ur will come to you. He will put you through some kind of ordeal – it seems to vary from ku’an to ku’an, and I would not try to guess what it will be for a foreign half-blood like yourself. If you survive, you will be accepted here.”

“What is the significance of the heart, up on the dais?”

“That is Som’ur’s heart.”

“It is . . . very lifelike,” Callo said.

“It is not a representation of Som’ur’s heart. It is the god’s heart. It was cut from his body on the battlefield and has been guarded by the ku’an ever since.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

“No. I would appreciate it if you informed my man Chiss and Healer Kirian of where I am.”

“Of course.” The priest stood and drew his robe about him. He stepped toward the door.

“No prayers, then,” Callo said.

“They would mean nothing to you, worshipper of a foreign god that you are. And Som’ur himself requires no prayers from us, just dominance in his name. Good fortune to you, Lord Callo. I hope to see you in the morning.” The priest bowed and nodded to the guards. They walked out behind the priest, hands on weapons, eyes never leaving Callo until the door locked behind them.

Callo stretched and leaned back in the chair. It was hard and uncomfortable. He did not know how the ku’an worshipped Som’ur, but he was sure none of them fell asleep in these chairs while doing it. After a while, he got up and began pacing the perimeter of the tiny room, practicing the controlled breathing he had learned from Jashan’s priests.

There were no windows for him to tell the passage of time, but the candles had burned down a couple of marks when he felt the first intimation of danger. He sat in one of the chairs, waiting.

The air around him turned cold. In a flash he felt the heightened sensation he had felt when Si’lan had tested him—the rasp of air on skin, the pain of the hard chair pressing into his back, the intense unbearable aroma he had not even noticed before. He rose, unable to keep touching the chair, but the pressure of his feet on the floor almost made him cry out. He closed his eyes for a moment against the searing light from the two candles. All his senses were on fire.

He sat back down, gritting his teeth against the rough sensation. Then the heightened sensitivity vanished.

All was quiet. He opened his eyes, wincing, but the candlelight was once again just a dim glow. He waited.

Then two amber eyes opened in his mind, and he lay back across two chairs, dismayed.

The eyes scanned his mind, sweeping back and forth across the expanse of his memories from the earliest childhood when he had let his anger spill out onto those around him. The gaze saw into every dark corner. Callo lay there sweating as his mind opened up its possessions to the god. The wall he had built to contain the ku’an ability vanished under Som’ur’s eyes. The eyes burned where they looked, leaving his mind feeling raw and sore. This was miserable, but if all Som’ur was going to do was look, Callo thought he could make it through the night.

Then the god started testing him.

The first feeling was joy—an explosion of it, so white-hot that his muscles stiffened, and he gasped. He had never felt joy like this, so intense it was almost pain. Then the joy was swept away as if the god tired of it, and lust took hold, only for a few seconds of exquisite torment, before it vanished. Then came fear, and the fear did not let go.

The fear turned his muscles rigid. His heart raced; his breath came fast. He felt as if he was going to black out. Was this what a ku’an did, what Som’ur let them do—cause this agony? Was he supposed to accept the god’s intrusion somehow, let Som’ur in? He could not do that—Jashan was his god, who had guarded him from himself for decades. He could not accept this brutal invasion; there was no way he could assimilate it, although he thought that was what Som’ur expected of him.

He tried to shove Som’ur away the way he had the ku’an’an when Si’lan had tested him, but his will was in shreds, his barrier wall gone. Som’ur was inflicting misery on him that he thought would kill him. His heart beat rapidly, and so hard he almost thought he would be able to see his chest vibrate with it. All his muscles were clenched, and his breath came fast, yet he could get no air. He slipped from the chair into a heap on the floor. His vision began to blacken, and a sharp pain slammed from his head through his body. His heart spasmed.

Then something hot ran from his tormented heart down his veins into his hands. He felt Som’ur hesitate; he was able to draw a deep breath. He opened eyes that felt as if they were rimmed with salt, seeing fire in the room—color magic. Jashan’s magery raced into the room as Jashan responded to his call and defended him from the other god. Surely it was extraordinary that Jashan would come to fight for him in the very temple of Som’ur. Even more astonishing that the god’s fire came from his own hands.

The fire died. His heartbeat eased. The pain subsided until he thought he could sit up. His arm almost gave out as he pushed himself up into a half-sitting position. The gold eyes in his consciousness closed and Callo’s mind was his own once more.

He was alone. No gods lurked in his mind. He looked up at the spy hole and thought he saw movement, then shrugged to himself and dragged himself to his feet. Swaying, he took a quick inventory and found his body weary, shaking, painful, but whole. His mind was seared but seemed to contain everything it should, including his protective wall, which loomed stronger than ever somehow. He looked up at the plinth and saw the god Som’ur’s heart still there, still beating. To his exhausted eyes, it looked a little scorched.

He gave himself a few minutes to recover, then stood in the center of the tiny room, swordless, and did the most basic of his rituals, turning without his usual grace in the small space available. The familiar motions seemed to ease the raw feeling in his mind. He thanked Jashan for his aid.

Som’ur had left no influence in his mind that he could detect—just pain. He wondered how it was for the other ku’an. He knew he dared not ask. After a few minutes, he lay down again across the chairs, put his hand across his forehead, and fell into an exhausted slumber.

Neither the rattle of the locks nor the opening of the door awakened him in the morning. He startled awake to the odor of bad breath and the sight of a looming red face a few inches away from his own. The ku’an priest peered at him.

Callo raised a hand and pushed the man back, grimacing. What a way to wake up, he thought, and after such a terrible night. He could trace the path of each of his muscles by the pain.

“He’s alive,” Wan’tal announced. “Som’ur has accepted him.”

Callo sat up, then stood. His body was one big ache, but his mind was clear. He said, “I can go now?”

“Yes, my lord. I will inform the ku’an’an of the results.” He looked at Callo. “May I say I am pleased, Lord Callo.”

There was a small commotion at the door. Chiss shoved past the two guards. He glared at them, straightening his tunic as if they had tried to restrain him.

“Chiss, I am very glad to see you this morning!”

“Lord Callo, thank the gods you are all right!” There was unaccustomed emotion in the man’s voice. “When they told me where you were, I tried to convince the Lord Ku’an’an this was a mistake. I regret I failed. Are you well?”

Callo stretched carefully. He coughed. His throat and mouth felt like sandpaper. “Very well, Chiss, considering.”

“I assume my lord may go now?” Chiss said to Wan’tal frostily. “Or must he run some other gauntlet?”

Wan’tal said, “He may go. I will send Lord Yun’lar to you if you wish, Lord Callo. He is the King’s physician.”

“No need,” Callo said. If he needed a Healer, there was one he would far rather consult. He shouldered past the curious guardsmen and walked with Chiss to his chamber. Inside, Chiss brought him wine and food. He sipped the wine, closing his eyes briefly as the tart liquid went down his abused throat. He could not remember why his throat was so sore. Had he screamed, during Som’ur’s ordeal?

Chiss moved about ordering hot water for a bath. After a while he said, “Lord Callo, shall I call Hon Kirian? You look—ill. And you have some cuts, I see.”

Callo looked down in surprise. There were indeed shallow cuts on his hands and forearms, cuts he did not remember receiving. The skin on his hands felt stretched and hot, as if singed. When he got ready for the bath, he would see what other wounds he had.

“Not now,” he said. “I need quiet. Let me see, after the bath.”

“I did not think you would survive it,” Chiss said. “I am very glad to see you well, my lord.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it through either.”

“Then—Som’ur actually came to you?”

“Oh, yes. Not gently, either.” He began to take off his tunic and winced in pain. Chiss stood at his side, helping him as if he were a boy again, needing help to undress after a tiring day.

“Are you his man then now?” Chiss stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“I am Jashan’s sworn man. But, I think—maybe Som’ur claims me also, in some way.”