Sasharia En Garde (60 page)

“Your highness,” Lady Starveas said then, somehow making her
bow graceful, though she sat on the back of a horse. It was clear that she
intended to be the spokesperson.

Atanial copied the bow as best she could, hoping she
wouldn’t fall out of the saddle. Her hips twinged; the flare of a hot flash
burned through her chest, tingling outward to the backs of her hands. Her face
broke out with moisture. “My lady.”

“We have heard word of your mission. We wish to hear the
truth from your lips.”

Atanial cleared her dry throat and straightened up,
resisting the impulse to wipe her sleeve over her hot face. She gave what by
now had become a speech, a pattern of words she could utter without thinking,
as she watched for reactions.

The four betrayed little during the speech, but at the end
Lady Starveas said, “Thank you. For once rumor was not far wrong, then.”

Atanial ached, and itched with the clamminess that followed
a hot flash. She longed for a bath and for an end to this endurance test. But
the cause was right. Whatever happened.

“We have been granted time to consider.” Lady Starveas
indicated the four of them with a graceful gesture. “For you must know that my
family lands were taken by those who call themselves Locan Jorans now.”

Atanial dipped her head in the half nod, half bow she’d seen
the aristocrats use to one another.

The duchess pulled from her inner sleeve a golden case. She
held it up.

Atanial recognized it as a communications case, which sent
messages instantaneously by magic. She swallowed tightly.
Here it comes
. The only surprise was that they had made it so long
without discovery.

Lady Starveas had also retrieved her own case. “We waited
only to hear the words from you. We have written letters to certain friends and
will send them, with your permission.”

Now Atanial was surprised. She managed the half bow again,
because she had no idea what to say. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple and
into her ear. Ugh.

Lady Starveas smiled a little. “I cannot speak for everyone.
There are some who will shut their eyes to violence in order to regain what
they think was once theirs. My family . . .” She looked away at
Ivory Mountain, crowned with snow. “We have morvende in our family. We know
that land is land, it stays when we are gone. Our sense of permanence is
imposed on land, it is not granted by any but other humans.”

Lord Kender stirred, and the lady sent him a fast look.
Atanial wondered just how much fraught emotion lay behind those subtle
reactions that she could so easily have missed.

A fly buzzed by her mount’s ear, causing the animal to
twitch and bob. Atanial leaned forward to shoo the fly away and stroked the
horse’s bony neck ridge. As she did, she surreptitiously wiped the side of her
face on her shoulder.

“There is the matter of holding what we’d regain by
violence,” Lady Starveas went on, as if Atanial had spoken.

Atanial then wondered if the lady was not talking to her at
all.

“Some might look forward to years of fighting. I do not. I
would rather regain at least some of our holdings by negotiation. I say all
this because I believe if your husband, Prince Mathias Zhavalieshin, was to
return, perhaps that negotiation would occur. Many of those over in Locan Jora
who sit now in our old homes and work our land were loyal to the Zhavalieshins,
who once came from that area. But the king is now Canardan Merindar.”

The duchess spoke for the first time. Her voice was thin and
light as a bird’s. “We welcome you to the castle. We extend this invitation to
you all. We’ve been preparing.”

Lady Starveas gave one of those slow, stylish nods in her
direction, then turned to Atanial. It was very clear they’d planned things out.
“But when you move on, we will not be going with you. Honor requires us to keep
the oaths we made to Canardan, for he has not broken his oaths to us. Though,
now speaking only for myself, my heart yearns for the return of Prince Math.”

The duke and duchess made the low bow of accord.

Atanial lifted her voice so the women crowded behind could
hear. “I thank you on behalf of everyone here. We ask no more than that.”

They crossed the bridge and wound their way to the old
castle whose towers were just visible beyond the lacy veil of the cascade.

Ivory Mountain got its name from a white stone with
peculiar properties, a stone that resembled frozen ice with melted silver mixed
in, or so it’s been described. Those peculiar properties caused it to be nearly
destroyed a few thousand years back or so. The morvende moved from the geliath
(which is kind of like a cavern city a couple thousand years old), leaving it
empty except for occasional retreats over the succession of centuries
following.

That shows about how old the place was.

I galloped up the trail, branches whapping my face and the
moisture-laden leaves dousing me with stinging-cold water. I was terrified that
Randart and his gang would get me before I could find the access-way, and my
fear communicated to the mare, who moved her fastest.

Up and up, the mare’s head low to the trail, leaving me to
watch the rocks at both sides lest I miss the triple-flower carving, which I
was afraid had worn away.

I was wondering what to do if I reached the snowy mountain
summit when at last my eyes were drawn to the symbol, weird as that sounds. I
found out later, if you’re taught the access signals, part of the magic is that
image and reality will find a way to match. I mean, we’re talking old,
old
magic.

In grateful relief I flung myself off the mare, who was
sweating from the steady climb despite the bitter air, and fell to my knees,
shaky fingers scrabbling at the smooth stone between a holly bush and a
climbing of ivy that had mysteriously never grown over that portion of the
stone.

I don’t even know what I did, but the entire face of the
rock shimmered, and there before me was a narrow fissure reaching up about nine
feet, scarcely five feet wide. Dark as it was inside, I figured moss and some
spiders would be preferable to a close, personal interview with Randart—backed
by a couple hundred buff men and women wearing lots of shiny, pointy things,
and probably in bad moods from missing their morning coffee.

The mare sniffed, snorted, then followed me willingly
enough. Right after her tail passed the edge of the shadow cast by the sun down
the rock face, the shimmer abruptly vanished, leaving us in darkness.

I stood next to the horse, who sniffed some more and turned
her head, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof. Thunk, thud. I rubbed my eyes,
wondering what the heck to do next.

When I opened my eyes, my vision had adjusted. A faint glow
emanated from the stone in a series of purple blossoms painted impossibly long
ago. The glowing signals led down a tunnel.

I stayed on foot, not sure how high the ceiling was, leading
the mare by the reins. The stone floor seemed firm and not slimy. Good sign, I
told myself.

We wound slightly to the left, always downhill, judging from
the pressure on my toes.

We entered a cavern lit by a glowglobe of a kind I had never
seen. Most have steady, soft light, faintly bluish, though I understand the
light comes from gathered sunlight, stored by magical means. I would swear this
globe was spread spectrum, for the light was soft but remarkably clear, picking
out glittering bits from the rock all around, showing carvings of vines twining
up overhead, and the remains of a painted sky with stars. The soft dirt of the
ground glittered with blue flakes, bits of paint that had fallen over the
centuries.

Below the glowglobe’s niche was a trough with running water.
I could hear it rushing down from somewhere above. The horse and I were
thirsty.

I cupped my hands and dipped them. The water hurt, it was so
cold, but it was clear and tasted good. The horse shouldered me aside and got a
good long drink.

When we were done, I looked around. Several tunnels led off
in various directions. I felt the faint ruffling of an air current from
somewhere and almost instinctively turned in that direction.

Why not? Before I’d spent a couple days climbing the side of
this mountain I’d thought it would be easy, like entering a big building.
There’s your directory, you get into the elevator, and whoosh, there’s your
suite. The vast size of this place was daunting. I kept trying to remember
everything my father had told me when I was taught the magic, but all I could
bring up was a vague sense of glowglobes, light, gleaming painted stars that
looked real to my young eyes—and the spell.

So I followed the fresh-smelling, cool air current. I
figured there had to be a hot spring somewhere down in the honeycomb of
caverns, the air funneled upward. Anyway, I was grateful that I could see, that
the tunnels were clean, no slime, no giant webs.

When I reached the right place, there was no warning. No
trumpets, no sinister barriers or portents, no mysterious guardians. Nothing
but the two of us emerging from the tunnel into a chamber with a pair of
entrances opposite one another.

But I remembered it.

Here the painted ceiling was not flaking off. It glimmered
pale blue in the brilliant light given off by hundreds of tiny glowglobes no
bigger than a pea, the effect like the twinkling lights some people put in
trees, back on Earth. The blue intensified in gradations up the dome of the
ceiling, becoming a deep, cobalt glow directly overhead, the constellation
depicted there glittering like a real sky.

My throat squeezed up when I recalled standing there once
before, a scared little kid transfixed with wonder. I’d thought the top of the
mountain had opened, leaving me staring straight up at the night sky.

But I knew it was day, and I stood deep inside a
mountain—and that an enemy rode hard on my trail.

I had a job to do.

I dropped the reins. The mare watched me, the glowglobes
pinpoints in her patient eyes. I dug through my bag and pulled out the little
seashell wrapped in its homespun.

I opened the cloth and held out the shell, which began to
glisten. There was enough ambient magic—or maybe it was the right magic—for the
spell I’d been taught so long ago.

I stepped into the middle of the room, rubbed my damp palms
down my grubby clothes, drew in a couple of
chi
breaths, and began the spell.

Magic potential rushed inward through me, a feeling akin to
channeling a lightning strike. I shut my eyes and concentrated on the shaping
words . . . and finished.

Light snapped on my palms and the shell vanished.

A current of air rushed round the chamber, and the horse
tossed her head and stamped as a tall man with wild gray hair appeared. His
thin body was clad in a long tunic down to his knees and baggy riding trousers.
He had bare feet.

My astonished eyes flicked back to his face, that
hawk-nosed, kindly face I’d remembered in dreams and in waking, and then it
blurred as hot tears welled up.

“Dad!”

His arms opened, and I hurled myself into them.

o0o

When Randart realized he was going to have to deal with a
magic mountain, he used one of two transfer tokens the king had insisted that
Zhavic make. They were instant summons, pulling either Magister Zhavic or
Magister Perran willy nilly from wherever they were.

Randart had possessed these two tokens for years. He’d never
thought he’d want a mage, but the time had come. The one he chose was Magister
Perran, who had been guarding the old tower in case anyone tried a World Gate
transfer. It was far too late for that.

Magister Perran arrived abruptly. Before he recovered from
the transfer dizziness, Randart pointed at him and three of his men seized the
mage, who was older, stocky and not exactly in fighting shape. They searched
him thoroughly, taking away his magic case, paper, a writing chalk, several
transfer tokens, and the book he’d had in his hand.

In silence they handed these things to Randart, who tossed
the book off the trailside cliff without a second glance and put the rest of
the items in the pouch at his belt. He glared down at the mage, ignoring his
faint cry of dismay. “Atanial’s girl is farther up the trail here on Ivory
Mountain. You will get us inside, without any trickery, or I will cut you down
myself before you can gabble one of your spells.” He drew his sword from the
saddle sheath and kept it gripped in his hand.

Perran shook his head once, and began walking.

Randart glanced back and motioned to two of his very best
trackers. They came forward and saluted. “String your bows. Be ready to shoot
the girl on first sight. Do not wait for an order. Do it. The one who drops
her—and anyone she’s with—will get land and a title to match.”

They saluted again, the fervency of their emotions expressed
in the gesture. The white-lipped rage in their commander’s face made it unsafe
speak.

So this is how they wound their way up the mountain,
Magister Perran walking, the trackers at either side, the others riding. The
mage desperately looking for some way in. He had not been taught the
access-way, and if you haven’t been taught, it’s going to be difficult to find.
He knew that much, if nothing else about morvende geliaths.

As they climbed higher, woman and horse tracks fresh before
them, his anxiety changed to despair and he wondered if he should jump off the
mountain. One glance at Randart’s angry face made it clear he was going to get
no sympathy or understanding. If the tracks kept going, and all they found was
a horse without a rider, Perran knew he would be murdered.

When they reached the place of the carvings, the tracks
seemed to lead directly into a wall. How to get in? Magister Perran began
searching for any kind of illusion, magical lock, whatever he could find.