Dark Magic (34 page)

Katya confirmed his doubt with a gesture at the archers set about the perimeter of the gathering, who even now nocked their bows, staring at the three riders. “They see us,” she remarked coolly. “Do we seek to avoid them, they’ll likely seek to know why.”

“And look to run us down,” Bracht added, his eyes moving to the mail-clad lancers standing to the rear of the bowmen. “Taking us for scouts for some robber band.”

Calandryll mouthed a curse as a sergeant shouted something, pointing toward them, his words relayed so that a familiar figure detached itself from the throng around the tent, striding proudly to the fore of the crowd.

Sunlight sparkled on polished armor as the man raised a hand to shade his eyes, peering toward the low ridge. His head was bare, the leonine mass of his reddish-brown hair tousled by the wind, and despite the distance between them, sufficient that individual features were blurred, Calandryll knew that he looked on his brother. He felt cold fingers of anticipation scratch his spine, convinced that at any moment Tobias must recognize him and send the lancers of the Palace Guard galloping to attack, that the bows must be drawn to shower arrows on him. He licked lips gone dry as Tobias turned to speak with those closest to him, and saw a woman move to his side, her auburn hair gathered in a snood. His brother draped an arm about her shoulders, saying something that brought a smile to her full lips and a flurry of laughter from the attendant entourage. Calandryll recognized Nadama, and in some part of his mind not numbed by dread saw that she was still lovely. He was absently pleased to find that sight of her brought no pang of loss, but perhaps that was simply because fear of recognition outweighed all else.

“Best we proceed,” Bracht decided.

“He’ll surely know me,” Calandryll objected.

The Kern glanced at him, appraisingly. “Shall the Domm of Secca pay so much attention to a wandering freesword?” He shook his head, answering his own question. “Come—they’ve seen us now and to avoid them must surely bring them after us. If worst arrives at worst, we ride through.”

Confidently, he heeled the stallion up to a trot, leaving Calandryll no choice but to follow, down the slope toward the bridge. Toward the brother who sought his death.

As a drowning man clutches at the merest straw,
so he sought the talisman of Dera’s promise, but still he felt his heart beat faster as they drew nearer the watching crowd. It seemed his skin prickled as he saw the half-drawn bows, thinking that it needed but a word from Tobias to lift him, pincushioned with shafts, from the saddle; that his horse was wearied by the morning’s ride while the chargers of the Palace Guard were rested, fresh.

From the corner of his mouth Bracht said, “You are Calan, a warrior of Cuan na’For. Remember only that.”

Calandryll’s own mouth was too dry to venture a response. Silently, he cursed the arrogance that left the road so narrowed by his brother’s train: the vehicles occupied sufficient space that he could not even find refuge between his companions, but must fall into single file to pass between the blockage. That was typical of Tobias, he thought, to assume ownership where he had no right. Anger rose to join his trepidation.

“Better,” Bracht murmured. “Hold that prideful expression.”

Ahead the bowmen clustered in a watchful knot. From beside the stream servants called, announcing the readiness of the midday meal.

If the lancers of the Palace Guard come out, Calandryll thought, they will surely know me. If Tobias or Nadama see me close, they will surely know me.
He clenched his teeth, heart drumming madly against his ribs; faster, it seemed, than the hooves of his mount clattered on the flags of the road, and louder. He did his best to stare ahead, to act the part assigned him, only to find his eyes drawn irresistibly toward the onlookers, as if some psychic magnet tugged his gaze toward Tobias. His brother had aged, he saw, his handsome face harder, lines etched about his patrician mouth, his eyes containing something more than his remembered arrogance, something cold and implacable.

They were almost level with the archers now and
Bracht slowed again as the soldiers pressed in on the road, soothing the big stallion as he snorted and pranced, sensing his rider’s tension. Katya’s grey caught the mood and curvetted nervously: Calandryll held his chestnut on a tight rein as the gelding whickered, stamping. The sergeant who had first warned of their approach stepped forward, a hand casual upon his sword’s hilt. Behind him his men waited. Behind them Tobias stared hard at the three riders. For a moment his eyes met Calandryll’s and the younger brother thought that surely his time had come, that the order must be given to attack and he must fall here, on this stretch of lonely road, his quest undone, the way left clear for Rhythamun. Then Tobias’s haughty gaze passed over him, and the Domm leaned closer to Nadama, spoke into her ear. She laughed again, teeth bright between the red of her lips. Calandryll felt sure the comment was about him: he tensed, thinking that if one bow lifted toward him he would draw sword and put heel to horse.

Instead, Tobias turned away, drawing Nadama with him as they moved toward the pavilion: three itinerant Kerns of only transitory interest to the Domm of Secca.

“Careful, lest he bite. Armed men make him nervous.”

Bracht favored the sergeant with an easy smile, loosing just enough rein that the stallion could turn his head and bare yellow teeth at the soldier. The man stepped out of his path, eyeing the Kern and his comrades with the dispassionate suspicion of the professional soldier.

“You’ve a fine animal.” His eyes traveled leisurely over the black horse, on to the grey and the chestnut. “All of you.”

“Aye,” Bracht agreed, “we prize our beasts in Cuan na’For.”

The sergeant nodded and motioned for his men to clear the road. Calandryll rode past him, certain that at any moment recognition must dawn, the prickling
that had afflicted his chest reasserting itself across his back as he went by the archers. He saw Tobias and Nadama disappear inside the pavilion. Then he was past the last of the bowmen and clattering onto the bridge, lifting the chestnut to a canter as, ahead, Bracht gathered speed, conscious of sweat cold on face and ribs.

Katya moved to his side as they crossed the valley, smiling. “You can let out your breath now,” she advised.

He had not known he held it until he heard himself sigh, and then he shuddered, breathing deep, sucking in great lungfuls of air as the road rose again, climbing the farther slope over the ridge that cut off sight of the pavilion and the clustered wagons and all the folk who might have known him. He shook his head, not yet ready to speak, confused by the emotions that racked him. Fear had been there, that he could readily admit, but fear was no longer unfamiliar and he had learned to control it, and knew that what he felt was more than fear. It was, perhaps, the presence, the sight, of his brother—the knowledge that had Tobias recognized him, he would not have hesitated to order his execution—forcing upon him the stark realization that he no longer had home or family in a manner no longer abstract but immediate and physical. Perhaps equally the sight of Tobias and Nadama together, the real and physical reminder that the woman he had once loved now chose his brother. It had been easy enough to accept those facts distanced by geography and time, but to see them—to know them—for reality was to confront their immediacy. He shook his head again, suddenly aware that his eyes blurred tearily, and raised a hand to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. Not speaking, Katya reached across to touch his shoulder and he smiled thinly, grateful for her silent sympathy.

Bracht grinned and said, “I disguised you well—they saw only a warrior of Cuan na’For,” then gestured that they speed their pace.

“Or Dera blinded them,” Calandryll murmured, feeling guilt now, that he had doubted the promise of the goddess. He heeled the chestnut to a gallop, giving himself over to the act of riding as he sought to match the longer stride of the Kern’s stallion, letting the wind blow away his confusion.

They rode thus until the horses began to tire and then halted to eat, confident that Tobias and his retinue lay leagues behind them. From the size of the Seccan party and its leisurely manner it was obvious they would reach Gannshold long before the city could be posted with Calandryll’s likeness, and that was a comfort that cheered him: by the time night descended on the moorlands and they made camp he had put away his disharmony and once more found calm, consigning both his brother and the woman he had once thought he loved to the hindmost part of his memory.

T
HE
next day the Gann Peaks loomed dark across the horizon, and in another the moors gave sway to foothills, all dotted with thickening pine and larch that spread a patterned canopy of myriad greens, all glossy with the promise of spring, over the slopes. The road rose steadily through the timber, climbing ever upward toward the beckoning mountains, built through deep cuts walled with blue-grey granite and across arching bridges over couloirs where streams foamed fierce, curving in serpentine terraces up slopes where pines grew precarious and along valleys bright with flowers. By day raptors hung in the sky above and at night owls hooted. On the third day they came to the gates of Gannshold.

K
ESHAM
-
VAJ
still smoldered, the sky lit red by the fires that still burned, the night still redolent of almonds and the carrion stench of corpses. Inside the Tyrant’s great pavilion censers filled the air with the sweeter odor of incense and roasting meat was only a little tainted by the malodorous aftermath of battle. Xenomenus, by habit fastidious, waved a perfumed handkerchief about his face, beaming hugely as his captains reported the great victory.

The rebel forces withdrew in disarray, scurrying like rats desperate to abandon a sinking ship from the plateau. They retreated eastward, into the Fayne, likely to group on Sathoman ek’Hennem’s keep, looking to establish a defensive line between the Tyrant’s armies and the coastal cities they still held. Cavalry and mounted archers harried them, and the Fayne Lord still lived, still lofted the banner of rebellion, but this day’s victory belonged to Xenomenus and ere long blockaded Mhazomul and Mherutyi must fall. It was a question of pressing onward, of cutting supply lines to isolate the coastal settlements totally, starve out the defenders. It would not be done overnight; indeed, it might not be done inside this year’s ending, even—this with wary, sidelong glances at the blackrobed
sorcerers who stood behind the Tyrant—with the aid Xenomenus commanded. It was a beginning, a glorious beginning, with the summer to march and fight, that progress inevitably slowed by winter, but come the next year’s spring—summer at the latest—and all Kandahar should once more bow to its rightful ruler and Sathoman ek’Hennem’s head decorate the walls of Nhur-jabal.

“Quite. Well done.” Xenomenus pressed the handkerchief to his nose—Burash, but these soldiers smelled of sweat and blood and steel, of dragon-hide armor worn too long!—his smile unwavering, for this was, truly, a mighty victory, a vindication of his belief. “Let all the companies celebrate. Wine shall be sent them.”

“And the war?” his commanders asked. “When do we march on?”

“Word shall be sent you,” Xenomenus promised. “That decision I shall take on the morrow. For now, I’d take my ease.”

A languid hand dismissed the officers and they quit the pavilion, not complaining overmuch, for they were, largely, plain soldiers, their faith put more in steel than sorcery, and what they had witnessed in the taking of this town raised memories of the Sorcerers’ War, which most had sooner forgotten. But still none spoke against the aid they had, for Kesham-vaj had been horribly defended and without the cabal might never have been taken.

His captains gone, Xenomenus beckoned his sorcerers closer, Anomius stepping closest of all.

“Was I not correct?” he asked, anticipating only agreement. “Some among you, I know, would have left this man forgotten in the dungeons. Now see—has he not given us Kesham-vaj? Given us our first triumph?”

Anomius simpered, bowing and beaming. Lykander said, “Indeed, Lord Xenomenus. There was great wisdom in that decision.”

He ducked his head, hands folding across the swell
of his belly, accepting the wave of acknowledgment the Tyrant granted him, not seeing the contemptuous glance Anomius flung his way.

“Aye,” said Xenomenus complacently. “There was, and now Kesham-vaj is mine again and Sathoman ek’Hennem in retreat. But”—his weak face assumed an expression he believed stern—“the war is not yet over. We’ve work yet to do. And this news out of Lysse disturbs me.”

“I think you’ve little need to worry on that score,” Lykander said. “That land is poor in thaumaturgists, and what there are scarce able to stand against us.”

“Mayhap,” Xenomenus allowed, “but still my spies tell me there’s a navy founded. War craft already anchored off Eryn and Wessyl—should Lysse decide to take a hand . . .”

He paused, handkerchief fluttering, and Lykander said, “They’ve not the time, Lord Tyrant. Before that fleet may sail we’ll once more hold the coastal cities, and still our navy is the greater, even now.”