Dark Magic (31 page)

“We ride together,” Katya replied.

“But I think you are not of Lysse. You’ve the look of the north about you, of some far land.”

She spooned up stew as she said it, face bent to the table. Katya said, “I am Vanu born.”

“Ah, Vanu.” Edra nodded over her bowl. “That is very far away. Close on the Borrhun-maj, which folk say boundaries the world itself. Do you not miss your homeland, Katya? Your kinfolk?”

“Aye.” For a moment Katya’s eyes clouded and the corners of her wide mouth turned down, her voice soft as she murmured, “I do.”

“But likely when you have found this thing you seek you will return there, no?”

Katya hesitated and Bracht said firmly, “Aye. We shall go there together.”

“And you, Calan? Shall you go home then?”

Calandryll lowered his spoon, taken aback by the question, unsure of his answer: where was his home now? Surely not in Secca. Home was become an amorphous thing, a concept vague as the beliefs, the hopes, he had forsaken when he fled. He pursed his lips and said softly, “Perhaps. Or perhaps I shall go to Vanu, too.”

“Not Cuan na’For, then?”

Again he wondered if he saw amusement in the faded gaze, or only a trick of the flickering light. He smiled indefinitely, shrugging. Edra smiled back and said, “Forgive my questions. I keep you from your dinner, but such fine company is rare and my tongue runs away.”

He smiled, not speaking, feeling that she somehow saw through his disguise and knew him for who and
what he was. But still he felt no fear, no belief that she was a witch or harpy. He tasted the stew and his smile grew wider: it was excellent; hare, he decided, spiced with herbs, the broth thick with vegetables, and filling. Across the table he saw Bracht eating as eagerly, his suspicions seemingly forgotten, or set aside.

He would have forborn to take a second platter but Edra urged it on him, assuring him that she had food aplenty, and when all was consumed they finished the jug of wine, speaking of their journey northward and of Aldarin, relaxing.

The storm still raged outside when Edra suggested they sleep, finding sheepskins and rugs that she spread before the hearth, apologizing that she could offer no better beds.

“Better than the roadside on such a night,” Katya declared. “Our thanks for this, and an excellent meal.”

“It is deserved,” Edra replied, smiling as Bracht glanced at her and adding, “Did you not come to my aid?”

She went to her own bed then and they settled by the fire. Bracht slept, as ever, with the falchion cradled like a lover in his arms, but both Calandryll and Katya set their blades by their sides, trusting, though they knew not why, in the old woman; sure that they slept safe this night.

And Calandryll dreamed. Or believed it was a dream: later, he decided it was an answer to forgotten prayers.

H
E
woke—or dreamed he woke—to the touch of Edra’s hand upon his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw her crouching beside him, a shapeless figure limned in moonlight, beckoning him to rise. Without question or conscious thought, he obeyed, instantly alert, moving silently after her. Neither Katya nor Bracht stirred, and that was strange for the Kern slept cat-cautious, his senses, even in the depths of slumber, seemingly attuned to his surroundings. Now though he lay beneath the piled sheepskins, feet toward the fire, a beatific smile curving his lips, one hand loose about the falchion’s hilt. Calandryll wondered how that could be and decided it was because he dreamed, no matter that he had felt the crone’s fingers dry on his skin, could hear the murmur of the banked fire, the sound of thunder a low grumbling far off to the south. He crossed the little room and followed Edra to the door, remembering that before it had creaked on rusted hinges, aware that now it opened silently and closed with no more noise. He stepped outside into the night.

The air smelled fresh, as if invigorated by the storm, no longer rank with marsh gasses, but perfumed with the scent of night-blooming flowers, and
balmy as a summer afternoon. This was, he thought, a most interesting dream, with nothing in it of threat but, rather, a sense of peace and promise. Over his head the sky spread wide and clear, stars sparkling, points of brilliance pricked through the velvet blue canopy, like distant torches or the running lights of ships, the moon distended, close to full, the radiance it cast gentle as a caress. A breeze stirred, setting the grass that filled the little meadow to rustling, the babble of the spring-fed stream a musical counterpoint, silvery cymbals to the fluting of the wind. He looked down as the black cat insinuated itself between his legs, purring, moving fluidly off into the darkness. Edra beckoned again and he stepped away from the hut, thinking that this was a remarkably vivid dream, not thinking to question it as he went after the crone across the grass to the crown of a hillock.

The wind blew stronger there—he felt it on his face, felt it shift his hair—and Edra halted, looking back toward the hovel. Calandryll followed her gaze: the hut was unchanged in its physical aspect, but now it seemed not a sorry little construction of ramshackle bits and pieces, but a place of refuge, a safe haven from storm and peril, for an instant a palace filled with light.

“You might remain here. This is not so bad a place.”

He stared about and knew that it was so—night spread a magical mantle over the bogland and he saw how it might be when spring came, how summer would transform the sloughs and quagmires.

“I cannot,” he said.

“You should be safe here.” Her voice was different, no longer a reedy whisper but deeper, mellifluous, and very confident. He shook his head and said again, “I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because then Rhythamun should use the Arcanum to find Tharn and raise the Mad God. That must not be.”

It did not occur to him to conceal his purpose: at a level below the conscious he knew that this dream was spun from the fabric of honesty, and that to prevaricate was to unravel it.

“Rhythamun?”

“He has the shape of Daven Tyras now; before, he was Varent den Tarl, but still he is Rhythamun.”

“Ah, I see—a shape-changer.”

“Aye, and mad as the god he’d return to life.”

“And you would prevent him.”

“I and Bracht and Katya—we must, lest all the world go down into chaos.”

“You three wear the trappings of mortality—how shall you prevent him?”

“I do not know. Only that we must attempt it.”

She nodded, her lined face approving, and when he looked closer at her he saw that she was changed. She was no longer a crone but a woman in the prime of her life, dressed in a gown that caught the soft effulgence of the gibbous moon and trapped it in folds of luminance so that she stood wreathed in light. Great waves of golden hair fell free to her shoulders, flowing about a face that was simultaneously unique and that of every woman he had known with love; that of his mother, and Katya, Nadama, Reba the spaewife: all became one in that visage, and as he stared in wonderment at eyes blue as the midsummer sky he knew—or dreamed he knew—that he looked upon the face of the goddess.

“Dera,” he whispered, falling to his knees.

She reached down, lifting him, saying, “You need not offer me obeisance; rather, it is I should kneel to you.”

He shook his head no.

“Aye,” she said, “for do you not quest in my name? Do you—and your comrades—not ride to battle in my defense? Should we Younger Gods not offer you thanks for that?”

“What else should we do?” he asked.

She smiled then and it seemed the night was banished
and he stood beneath the sun, but she gave no direct answer, saying instead, “Not all men think as you. In Kandahar there are mages know something of the Arcanum and what it means, but they do not go out seeking Rhythamun. Those of Vanu who name themselves sages are all aware of the book’s import, but still they send Katya in their place,”

“They are peaceful folk,” he said, “and in Kandahar the sorcerers are bound to the Tyrant, bound to fight his war.”

“Yet for all the blood spilled there, still that war should seem petty set beside what Tharn would visit on men.”

“I think perhaps they do not understand.”

He shrugged and the goddess asked, “Do you?”

“I know that Tharn is named the Mad God,” he replied, “and I believe that to attempt his awakening is insane. I’d not see chaos visited on the world.”

“Is the world so important then? Has it treated you so kindly?”

He frowned, surprised by the question. It seemed at such variance to all he believed, to all he knew, that he could not find a ready answer. At length he said, “Does Rhythamun succeed and Tharn awake, surely you should be destroyed.”

“All things end.” She gestured at the moon, past its zenith now, its descent to the western horizon begun. “As surely as night must.”

Again he frowned. “Do you tell me to forsake this quest?”

“No.” She smiled again and shook her head, brilliance coruscating from her hair. “I say only that you have options.”

“Not in this,” he said.

“You found the Arcanum. It might well be that Tharn would thank you for that. You might find favor in his eyes.”

He shuddered, dismissing the notion, saying “No!” in a tone of utter rejection.

His response seemed to please her, but still she
touched a hand to his arm and said, “It might well be your quest cannot succeed,”

“Is that a reason to give it up?” He shook his head, answering himself: “No!”

“You might well die in the attempt.”

“Aye.” Now he nodded. “But still we must try.”

For long moments she studied his face, then smiled anew and said, “You are brave.”

He felt such pleasure at that encomium his cheeks reddened. Like some embarrassed boy he shuffled his feet, his eyes lowered as he murmured, “Am I?”

“You chase a wizard,” she said softly, “a sorcerer of terrible power, whose fell subtleties you already know. Has he not tricked you before? Do you not think he will trick others to his cause?”

It seemed irrelevant that she so obviously saw through his disguise, knowing who he truly was and of his dealing with the warlock—she was, after all, a goddess, and this was but a dream.

“Even so.” He shrugged.

“Even so,” she returned. “Though it likely be impossible; though you shall undoubtedly earn Tharn’s enmity does Rhythamun succeed; though you may well die before that day comes—even so, you’d go on?”

“Even so,” he said, firmly now.

“There are few left of your mettle, Calandryll.”

Her voice was almost wistful; he shrugged again and said, “I am not alone. Katya and Bracht are of the same stamp. More . . .”

“In their ways,” she said, “aye. And for that they, too, have my thanks. But there’s iron of a different kind in you.”

He smiled, dismissing that compliment, his mind fixed on what she said of gratitude, wondering if he dare voice the thought that came. Why not? This was a dream, was it not? And in dreams all things are possible.

“I’d ask more of you than thanks,” he said.

He thought perhaps he ventured too audacious on
capricious ground, for it seemed a shadow passed across her face, like cloud drifting over the moon: “What would you ask of me?” she wondered.

“Help,” he said. “We are—as you say—only mortal and we hunt an enemy impervious to honest steel. Aid us! I know not how, but give us the means by which we may defeat Rhythamun.”

Her face was solemn as she looked into his eyes and he feared he had gone too far. But then she said, “Has my brother Burash not come to your aid? And so, too, shall I—so far as I may. But we Younger Gods are not of such stuff as Tharn and Balatur, just as they are lesser creatures than Yl and Kyta, and my power is limited, as is that of Burash. I’ve no sway beyond Lysse.”

She paused, her lovely face thoughtful. Calandryll said urgently, “Whatever aid you can. Anything.”

“We Younger Gods are not omnipotent. Principles beyond your easy understanding govern us, surely as time governs mortal men.” Again she paused; Calandryll waited, breath held. “But this I tell you, though you’ll not yet understand me, nor, I suspect, believe me—that which you need to defeat Rhythamun you have already.”

“I do not understand,” he agreed. “Do you say it in words I may comprehend?”

“I cannot,” she told him gravely, “lest there be disturbed a balance complex beyond your knowing. Only that you may succeed.”

He opened his mouth to voice protest, reminded of Bracht’s blunt pronouncements on the circuitous natures of gods and wizards, but her hand rose, silencing him. “Hold to your belief,” she advised, “and remember my words. Beyond that I may say no more, save”—her face clouded again, briefly, her lips pursing as if she deliberated within herself—“that you shall ride safe in Lysse, for all your brother seeks you. That gift is mine to give, and one more—give me your sword.”

He had not known he wore the blade. Indeed was
sure that when he rose he had not brought it with him, though now, unquestioning, he drew it and passed it to her.

She took it by the hilt and ran one hand down the length of the blade before returning the weapon. “Doubtless you shall face magicks along your way, such as can defeat plain steel,” she advised. “Know then, that this blade carries my blessing and shall cut magicks as it cuts flesh. Now, enough—come, sleep before day finds us and you must be on your way.”