The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (74 page)

“Who knows?” the driver answered. “But all of the Porzalk Empire knows about your talent, and from what I hear, they all want to command it for their own purposes. If you could conjure up an army from the Spirits of the Outer Air, you would be the equal of any army. You can’t pretend that you wouldn’t be a prize for highway robbers, or local landholders, or Riast’s enemies.”

She shook her head, unwilling to believe this. “They’re probably just desperate men who lost too much in the conjure-storm and have had to resort to robbery for survival,” she said, and doubted it as she spoke. With so many masked men attacking, it suggested something more than desperate country-folk. There was something organized and malign about the masked men; they had grim purpose about them and their fighting style seemed experienced rather than random, despite the poor horses and the old weapons. “How would they know they have me?”

“There is little enough traffic on this road as it is, and now, each company of travelers is marked from their first steps. News of travelers spreads quickly, and everyone hears it. You’re bound to the west, and you have an Imperial escort, which tells them you’re worth protecting, and therefore worth capturing.” He slapped his hands together. “Help your guards. Get into the wagon with your servant. Quickly now. Berianaj will protect you. He’s a solider, and he knows his work.” He cocked his head toward the rear of the wagon. “I’ve got a few tricks, too.” He smiled harshly. “Get going, Duzeon, before there’s more trouble.”

Erianthee hesitated only for three heartbeats. “Do you think – “

”Go,” he said, and reached into the foot-well beneath his driving seat to pull out a snubbed crossbow with a double string. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I’d rather fight,” she said, watching the roiling confusion ahead of them. She decided to cast a fear-spell on their adversaries.

“Go,” the driver repeated, and brought up a handful of double-spiked quarrels.

Reluctantly she moved back in her saddle, up against the cantle, and tugged the reins to back the copper-dun, using her heels and calves to keep him going. As she came abreast of the third wagon, she signaled the driver. “I’ve been told to get inside,” she said.

“I’ll secure your horse,” said Berianaj, pulling his pair of mules almost to a halt and reaching for the copper-dun’s reins as Erianthee swung from the saddle into the driving-box of the wagon, taking hold of the edge of the wagon’s roof to keep from falling. “Go through to your maid. She’ll have weapons for you both, or anything else you may need.”

“I will,” said Erianthee, hearing the shouts and clash of the fighting grow louder.

She tugged the heavy canvas at the back of the driving-box aside and ducked into the wagon’s interior.

Rygnee faced her with a studded mace in her hand, ready to strike. She gave a shriek, dropped the weapon, and laughed nervously. “It’s you. Oh, Duzeon.” Her voice trembled. “Thanks to Hyneimoj, the Ineffable! I was afraid . . . ” She shuddered, bent to retrieve her mace, and pulled back the heavy curtain that covered the window. “What’s happening.”

“We’re under attack,” said Erianthee, her voice grating to her own ears. “The escort is up ahead, engaging the – ”

”But who’d want to attack us, and why?” Rygnee demanded.

Having no answer for her, Erianthee reached for her own chest. “Are my daggers in here?”

Collecting herself, Rygnee said, “Yes. If you want them?”

“I do. And my ympara-oil.” She was already working the lock on the chest. “I’ve been told to summon up some help.”

“You’re going to cast a protective spell!” Rygnee exclaimed. “Oh, good! What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” said Erianthee. “Except hold the two vessels steady. I can’t put them on an offering-board, not with the wagon swaying. Don’t let anything drop.” She took the daggers out of their scabbards and slipped them into the sheaths in her sleeves, then she reached for the alabaster vessels and handed them to Rygnee. “You’ll have to put the mace down.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Rygnee as she sank back on the upholstered seat. The wagon rocked a little as it moved slowly forward. She tittered nervously. “What kind of men are out there?”

“Masked ones,” said Erianthee, opening the vial of ympara-oil and pouring a little out into the alabaster vessels. “Hold them steady, mind.”

“All right, all right,” said Rygnee, trying her best to concentrate on the task, while she listened to the clamor of fighting drawing nearer.

As she intoned the first phrases of the Summoning Rite, Erianthee thought that three months ago, she would never have attempted it, let alone in a moving wagon with combat going on immediately outside. The time in Tiumboj after the conjure-storm had forced her to extend her talent, and now she found it comparatively easy to focus herself on calling up magical support in the form of mindless dread to launch at the enemy. Her recitation went on, and in a hundred heartbeats, she felt the stirrings that indicated the nearness of Spirits of the Outer Air, and beyond them, the gods and goddesses of the Great World. She had never manifested a god or goddess before – not deliberately. Before she had only conjured up Spirits of the Outer Air to represent them. Whatever her visionary Shadowshows had created, they were not the same as a full manifestation of a god or goddess. It wasn’t that it couldn’t be done, she reminded herself. After all, that’s what Riast had wanted from her. She shook off her reservations, mustering her courage, and continued, “I call upon Zaythomaj, the Retributionist, to come to our aid against these unknown foes. We have done nothing against them, and yet they attack us.” She blinked as a wave of queasiness went through her, making her light-headed and a bit disoriented. Taking a moment to regain her balance, she realized that this summoning-spell was demanding more of her than any other conjuration she had attempted in the past. It seemed as if a great, impalpable wind was blowing from somewhere deep within her skull. As she steadied herself, she saw the air shimmer and a misty face form, adding the suggestion of a body as it swung out of the wagon. Erianthee continued to chant, making sure she pronounced every word correctly, her head humming as she did. “Let them be visited by terror and panic, by fright that turns their vitals to cold water, and by the need to flee.” She was vaguely aware of sudden shouts and howls unlike those that had arisen from the fight before now, and then a high, keening wail that was wholly otherworldly resounded, accompanied by horrified screams. The sound of frantically galloping horses reached them even as the mules squealed and minced in distress.

Rygnee went white as she listened, but dared not move; her limbs felt rubbery and she struggled to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see what was happening outside, for the shouts and wails filled her with a kind of cold, slimy fear that she had never before experienced. “Hurry,” she whispered to Erianthee, who was half-fainting with the demands of the manifestation.

“Our preservation redounds to your glory, Zaythomaj, the Retributionist. Your aid in our time of need reaffirms your talents, and your strength. We approve your aid and are gratified by your manifestation.” She made a last, complex gesture as if gathering the neck of a huge sack together for tying, pronouncing the last two words of the dismissing of the summoning-spell with an authority that surprised her. The air sizzled and a shape that was just at the limit of visibility hovered before her, then winked out. Erianthee fell back on the padded seat, her face the color and texture of new cheese.

Taking Erianthee’s hand, Rygnee chafed at her palm, but got no response. “Duzeon. Duzeon. Please.” She began to weep, as much because the worst of her terror was over as because there was nothing she could think to do to help Erianthee.

“Don’t languish. Don’t . . . die.”

The wagon picked up speed, as the company reformed and resumed its journey. The wagon floundered along the rutted road, the mules at a jog-trot, and its rocking tipped Erianthee over on her side on the padded seat, but there was no sign of a response – she might have been a large doll for all she reacted to this shift in position. She remained, relaxed but not wholly limp, on the seat while Rygnee cried, not knowing what else to do.

* * *

Heavy mists had spread in from the River Dej, blotting out the near-full moon and lending an eerie shine to the thickening fog. Ninianee had taken shelter in a small copse of umbrella-willows that were just starting to sprout spring leaves, and so provided limited protection from the damp of the night. Once she had built up a fire, she took the last of the bread and cheese from the sack of provisions Herebarzit had given her, insisting that Ninianee had more than earned it. She had added a small skin of water and a plain cooking vessel as well, and with these, Ninianee set about breaking up the last of the hard bread into the sections of cheese she had melting in the pot, but her mind was on the next night, the first night of the full moon.

Never had she felt so alone! She had no certain idea where she would be, or what she would become. She would have to hide her clothes before she Changed, or ruin the only garments she had. But then – more difficult still – she would have to remember where the clothes were when morning came, or face the world naked. That was what troubled her the most – the realization that she could end up losing the few things she had. She stirred her simple meal with the small knife she had managed to keep while in the river, and tried to determine how far she was from Vildecaz Castle. The mists distorted everything, hiding all but the nearest objects, and concealing much of them in pale wisps. Touching her tight, red ringlets, she could feel burrs and brambles caught in her hair, and knew she must look like a wild creature even more than she did while she was Changed to an animal.

A scuffing sound from a short distance away brought her out of her reverie. She clutched the knife and waited, tense, for whatever might be approaching – she wasn’t the only hungry beast out in this night. With care she moved her pot back from the fire and put another length of fallen branch onto it to build up its light. Her meal would have to wait until she dealt with the intruder.

The next sound was more like a foot-fall, careful and stealthy. Now Ninianee wondered if a person and not an animal might have made the sound, and she crouched, ready to fight, her knife clutched tightly in her hand. She peered toward the sound, wishing the mist would dissipate, for the firelight created more glare than vision against the drifting whiteness. Listening intently, she moved almost silently so that the fire was between her and the soft noises she heard.

“I told you there was nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you,” said Doms Guyon from beyond the lume of the fire. After a dozen heartbeats he strolled up to her, relief and something deeper in his light-blue eyes. “You can put the knife away.” He was in a pelgar the color of Nard-needles with a high neck and braided cuffs, over brikes of multi-ply knitted irytex-wool the color of fallen leaves – clothes Ninianee had never seen before. His boots, also, were new, as were his gloves.

“You’re alive,” she exclaimed.

“Unless you stab me,” he said easily.

She stared down at her hand, then back at him. “I thought . . . you’d drowned.”

“Understandable.” He touched her arm. “If I hadn’t known you were alive, I’d have thought the same about you, the river being so wild.”

Ninianee’s face grew sad. “Onpoleneraz and Ferzal. And all but the one mule.”

“And one pony. I have Womilaj – he’s tied at the edge of the copse. I have no idea where the mule is. Womilaj took some minor injuries in the river, but he’s sound enough,” said Doms. “You can travel faster now. You won’t have to walk all the way to Valdihovee.”

Ninianee sat down abruptly, her thoughts in confusion as she tried to work through all her emotions. “How do you . . . What is . . . How long have you . . . “ She picked up her cooking pot. “There isn’t very much, but you’re welcome to half.”

He seemed unfazed by her confusion. “That’s good of you. I have a bottle of pickled melon and a dozen strips of smoked venison – it’s tough but it’s good. I’ve also got a smoked goose, for tomorrow. We’ll need new supplies after that.” He smiled at her, firelight and something more shining in his eyes. “And I still have my pouch of gaylings and a few damzejes, maybe a dozen of them.” He laughed softly once. “I couldn’t untie the pouch-lacing while I was in the river, so – ” he broke off, and respected her.

“Where is the food?” she asked, too bluntly, she knew, but she was hungry, more so now that she knew she would eat more than bread in melted cheese, and she was afraid that at any instant she might wake up and find herself alone again, with only one meal left.

“In a case on Womilaj’s saddle. Shall I go fetch it?” He took a step away from her and was surprised when she reached out for his hand. “I’ll be back. I’ll bring Womilaj with me – how’s that?”

“Yes. Yes, if you would.” She released his hand self-consciously, and stepped back, watching while the mists enveloped him as he walked away from her camp, so that he disappeared among the trees into the twisting fog. Carefully she knelt down to put her cooking-pot near the blaze of the fire, but not so close that the cheese would burn. She wasn’t sure if she had seen Doms, although his hand felt real enough, or if this were an illusion, similar to Erianthee’s Shadowshows, and she was only trying to lessen her loneliness with his familiar and reliable presence. She had never used her talent that way, but she had never had cause to want to do so before. She resigned herself to his disappearance. Then the sound of pony’s hooves on the damp ground caught her attention, and relief washed through her again. She rose and swung around to face the sound. “Doms?”