Reave the Just and Other Tales (15 page)

Five levels above our cell, we came upon the Archemage.

In a stone chamber lit by the keep’s ceaseless lamps, he sat at a long trestle table scattered with scrolls and charts, his back to the door. More scrolls curled outward from the stool on which he perched, in reach of ready reference. And still more, texts by the hundreds, were piled upon row after row of shelves propped against all the walls—scrolls in profusion, of every description, some plainly ancient, others still gilt and gleaming. Together they held more knowledge than I had ever seen, or indeed imagined, in one place.

At the sight, I experienced an eerie pang. Where the
mashu-te
valued purity and scruples, the
nahia
prized knowledge. Granted the opportunity, my masters would have cheerfully slaughtered a kingdom to obtain so much treasure.

Isla, in contrast, would have cheerfully fired the room to rid Vesselege of Black Argoyne.

Even here, our captor was alone—a small figure immersed in his robes, hunching over his scrolls as though he fed from them. Whatever his needs may have been, for food or drink, for companionship or service, he supplied them by magery. The White Lords and Goris Miniter had made him a pariah to be feared and shunned.

From the back, a nimbus of white hair as fine as silk concealed the edges of his face. And he did not turn toward us. Indeed, he seemed unaware of our arrival. Sacrificing stealth for haste, we had not opened the door quietly, but other concerns held his attention.

As they would have held mine, in his place—

“Asper—” Isla breathed softly.

I ignored her.

Before the Archemage hung an image like the one in which Isla and I had watched the young man’s last test. This was far larger, however, filling one end of the hall. And the scene arrayed within it lay at some considerable distance, that was obvious. Argoyne’s stone walls—his keep among the peaks of Scarmin—contained no sunlit meadows, rich with wildflowers and grasses, like the one I saw beyond the table.

I knew at once that I gazed upon the ground appointed for the contest of champions. For the blood of the young
shin-te
—or of his opponent. For the resolution of the Mage War.

From the foreground of the image, the young man emerged, striding slowly away from us as if he strolled the meadow at his leisure. At first he was alone among the flowers under a sky defined by plumes and wisps of cloud. Before he had taken ten paces, however, a row of horsemen appeared along the far horizon. Dark with distance, and silent as dreams, they galloped swiftly forward, converging on the
shin-te
as they rode—an ominous throng, fifty or more, most of them soldiers and warriors. Soon I distinguished Goris Miniter by his helm and bearing, and by the crest of Vesselege on his velvet cape. The men on either side of him, clad in flowing robes so pure that they appeared to flame with reflected sunlight, must have represented the White Lords.

Neither Isla nor I advanced. The sight of the young man, isolated among the blooms, facing a force great enough to overwhelm any champion, kept us motionless.

At last the riders drew near enough to encircle him. By some trick of magery, however, they did not obscure our view of him. From horseback, Goris Miniter appeared to address the
shin-te,
but his words made no more sound than the mute hooves and tack of the horses, the silent commands of the soldiers. If the young man answered, we could not hear it. In the image they were all as voiceless as the dead.

Abruptly Argoyne searched among his scrolls, opened another on the table, and set his hand upon it. At once the scene seemed to gain depth as the meadow unveiled its sounds to the hall. A breeze we could not feel soughed gently. Horses stamped their hooves, jangled their reins. Men coughed and caught their breath.

“Goris Miniter,” Argoyne muttered, “King of Vesselege, I’m here.” By magery his voice carried into the distance until it appeared to resound in the air of the meadow, echoing strangely.

Startled, many of the horsemen searched for the source of the sound. One of the White Lords leaned aside to advise or instruct the King.

Miniter raised his head. His features were plain before us—the iron will of his mouth, the lines of calculation around his eyes. In Vess he was known as a clever monarch, a man adept at ruling powers he did not possess and could not match.

“Join us, Archemage,” he commanded the breeze and the sky. “This war will be decided here. Your absence warns of treachery.”

“As does your presence, King of Vesselege,” Argoyne answered. His tone was querulous and unsteady, the voice of an old man, wearied by his struggles and bitter about death. “I’ve agreed to this contest in terms that bind me. If my champion loses, my defenses fail with him. And if I attempt treachery to help him, my own powers will destroy me.

“Your White Lords are similarly bound. But you are not. You’re only an ally here, not a mage. Not a participant.

“I’ll stay where I am,” the Archemage concluded, “in case you’re tempted to take matters into your own hands.”

Goris Miniter scowled at this response, but did not protest. Instead he barked, “Then we will begin! The sooner your darkness is brought to an end, Black Argoyne, the sooner hope and healing will dawn at last in Vesselege.”

With one gloved fist, he made a gesture as if he meant to fling all his riders against the
shin-te
.

Only one horseman advanced, however. A warrior nudged his mount a pace or two into the ring. Among so many other men, he had not caught my eye. But when he left his place in the circle I seemed to know him instantly by the completeness of his command over his horse, the liquid flow of his movements as he dismounted, the perfect readiness of his strides and his poise—and by the palpable force of his
qa
. The might compressed within his frame was as vivid as a shout.

“Asper,” Isla breathed again. “It must be now.”

Still I ignored her. Argoyne could not remain deaf to our presence indefinitely. And when he noticed us, we would be lost. We had no hope against magery. Yet I could not break the spell cast on me by the sun-blazed robes of the White Lords, by Goris Miniter’s grim attention—and by the plight of the young man who had fought and died, fought and died, without knowing why.

The
nerishi-qa
was not a large man, perhaps no more than three fingers taller than the
shin-te,
and of somewhat greater bulk. Among my other apprehensions, this also troubled me. Where skill and
qa
were equal, any contest might be decided by weight of fist. Here was another disadvantage for a young man already hampered by fatigue and sorrow. In contrast, the
nerishi-qa
seemed arrogant and calm, certain of his strength.

His masters had at last accepted the challenge of the
shin-te
. And the fate of a kingdom rested on the outcome.

Respectfully, the young man bowed to his opponent. We could not see his face. Within myself, I prayed that the gaze he fixed on the
nerishi-qa
held anger rather than grief. When it did not sow confusion, anger bred force. Grief nurtured despair. And the harvest of despair was death.

The champion of the White Lords did not bow. His smile held untrammeled disdain as he advanced.

Despite this insult, the
shin-te
withheld attack. From the distance of the keep and the image, I saw no tension in his shoulders, his hips, his
qa
. Standing lightly, he waited in sunlight for the test of the killing stroke.

When it came, Isla also struck. Seemingly borne aloft by his
qa,
the
nerishi-qa
focused both weight and muscle in a flying kick which might have snapped his opponent’s spine—and Isla launched herself at the Archemage. While the
shin-te
slipped the kick aside, countering with elbow and palm, she slapped the crook of her arm around Argoyne’s throat, clamped her forearm to the base of his skull. Holding him so, she could snap his neck with one quick lift of her shoulders.

Instinctively he clutched at her arm. At once, she swept her leg over the table, wiping the clutter of scrolls beyond his reach.

“Isla—!” I protested.

In her turn, she ignored me.

“Now,” she murmured to his ear. “Now you’re mine. I hold your death, mage. I’m going to repay my own.”

Carried past the
shin-te
by his kick, the
nerishi-qa
rolled in the air to deflect the swift force of the young man’s elbow. Then, instead of landing heavily, he seemed to settle into the grass, his poise undisturbed. I could not hear him—the image had lost sound when Argoyne’s hands left his scrolls—but he appeared to be laughing.

“Wait,” I told Isla urgently. “Wait!”

Hastening to the table, I confronted her past the Archemage. I feared and distrusted him as much as she did. Now that she had grasped his defeat, however, I found that I did not want him slain. Instead I wished to see the outcome of the young man’s contest.

I wished to believe that my own deaths had not been wasted.

And I wished to understand this war.

Argoyne the Black had the look of a man who had spent his life among midnights and maggots. His beard was of the same fine white silk as his hair, but beneath it lay the slick, sunless complexion of a fish. And with Isla’s arms wrapped about his neck, he gaped like a fish, eyes bulging, scarcely able to breathe. Hints of milk in his eyes obscured his vision.

As she had said, she held his death in her arms. Yet he appeared undaunted. Gasping for breath, he demanded, “What do you think you’ll gain by breaking my neck?”

“Our lives,” she retorted without hesitation. “Victory for your enemies.”

“You won’t enjoy it,” he warned.

“Won’t I?” She tightened her grasp. “You don’t know me very well.”

I could imagine no appeal which might reach her. Her face held nothing for me, no doubt and no softness. Her scruples lay elsewhere.

I could have killed her there. My skills and my fang were apt for such an action. But my masters would have never forgiven me that dishonor. No
nahia
would have forgiven it.

“And you,” Black Argoyne panted in return, “don’t understand the tyranny of the pure. You fool, I’m all that remains of hope for this land!”

There I saw my opening. “Hear him, Isla,” I urged quickly. “Let him speak. We know nothing of this war. If we will determine its outcome, we must know what we do.”

She looked at me. As if involuntarily, her grasp loosened, permitting the mage more air.

“Isn’t he the Black Archemage,” she challenged me angrily, “devoted to darkness? Hasn’t he rained down death on all Vesselege until Goris Miniter himself has been forced to side with the White Lords? How much more do you need to know?”

In the image, the
nerishi-qa
attacked again. His tactics had changed. He no longer attempted to end the contest with one blow. Instead he advanced through a flurry of strikes and feints.

As before, the
shin-te
countered, landing a blow of his own when he could, parrying when he could not. Despite the pressure of his opponent’s assault, he moved easily, preserving his strength.

In a sense, the battle had not yet become serious. Both champions still measured each other, probing not so much for victory as for an estimation of their skills and weaknesses.

“You understand honor,” Argoyne coughed. Hooking his fingers on Isla’s forearm, he strained against her hold. He could not shift her grasp, but he gained space enough to speak more clearly. “Or you should. Every Fatal Art preaches it.

“Why do you think all the White Lords and Goris Miniter have banded together against me? Do you call that honorable? Do you really believe I’m so malign—and so powerful—that they had no choice? I’m just one mage. One man. Would every
mashu-te
in Vesselege go to war against one
nahia
? Or even one
nerishi-qa
?

“This whole struggle,” he spat, “is dishonorable.”

His assertion surprised me. I had not expected such an argument from a mage. Despite my experience of death, my enmity toward him wavered.

For her part, however, Isla was unmoved. Sneering, she retorted, “And what do
you
have to do with ‘honor,’ Archemage?”

“Little enough,” he admitted. “Everything they say about me is true.” His voice held an edge of savagery—of rage prolonged and constricted beyond endurance. Battle after battle, death after death, he had nurtured his fury until it filled him. “I study darkness. The Seven Hells are my domain.” He released one hand to indicate the ring of riders in the meadow. “
They
can’t bring slaughtered warriors back to life.
I
can. And I
have
rained violence on Vesselege. But not until they forced me to it. Not until they formed their alliance against me.

“Your White Lords—” In his mouth the words were a curse. “They don’t just think I’m wrong. They think I should be crushed. Because my magery isn’t like theirs. They want to destroy me because I look for power in places they fear. They want to destroy my knowledge. Not because of anything I
did
. Because of what I
am
. And what I know. Until they started this war, I’d committed no crime they could hold against me.”

That argument I felt as well, but Isla snorted contemptuously. “They aren’t here to defend themselves. Why should I trust anything you tell me?”

My attention was torn between Argoyne and the contest—between Isla’s grim hostility and my own uncertain intent. Glancing aside, I saw that the
nerishi-qa
had begun to spin, flinging out kicks and blows as if from the heart of a whirlwind. His balance and the stability of his
qa
on the uneven ground of the meadow seemed unnatural to me, almost inhuman. I could not have done what he did. Even at this distance, I feared to encounter such a master.

The young
shin-te
retreated steadily, dodging from side to side to foil the onslaught, occasionally diving beneath a kick to improve his position. If he discerned any opening in the assault—as I did not—he took no advantage of it.