Dark Magic (52 page)

A thought occurred to Calandryll then, and though he felt scarcely confident of any success, still he considered it worth the voicing.

“Does Jehenne stand alone in judgment?” he asked.

“She commands the clan,” said Bracht. “She was elected ketomana.”

“And the ghost-talkers have no say?”

“Not in this, save she ask it of them. I see your gist, but you heard Jehenne’s word on that—she’ll not let the ghost-talkers scry us. There, too, Rhythamun showed his cunning.”

“She said he warned against me.” Calandryll frowned, unwilling to forgo the least avenue of hope. “But not, I thought, against you or Katya.”

“It matters not,” said Bracht. “My offense is known, and in that Jehenne’s word is final. Were Katya of clan blood, then aye—she’d have the right to demand a scrying—but Vanu born, she’s no such claim.”

“The gods curse him!” Calandryll snarled. “He foresees each chance and seals the way.”

“Likely the gods do curse him,” Bracht said, his grin tight. “But the defeating of him they leave to us. Or you, come the morrow.”

“You said that while we live we’ve hope,” Calandryll returned. “And we live yet.”

“Aye.” Bracht snorted somber laughter, self-mocking. “But even I am not always right.”

“There’s no chance we might speak with a ghost-talker?” Calandryll was not yet ready to give up all hope. “None at all?”

“Save Jehenne agree it—which she’ll not—no,” said Bracht.

“There must,” said Calandryll, “be something we can do.”

“If there is, I cannot see it.” Bracht shrugged, sighing. “Rhythamun set his snares too well, my friend.”

Calandryll’s teeth ground angrily together. With fast-waning confidence he asked, “Sword-trial? May we not challenge Jehenne’s dictate?”

“Not where I am concerned,” answered Bracht. “In your case, perhaps, though even then—because you are not of Cuan na’For—Jehenne might refuse you. And your shoulder’s not full-healed yet.”

“But I am hale,” said Katya. “Could I challenge her?”

“Do the dead’s kin accept my coin, you’ll have no need,” Bracht told her. “Do they refuse, or Jehenne seek to override them, then you might ask it. Whether Jehenne would agree, or not, rests with her. But for me, such a course is denied.”

“And does she refuse,” Calandryll asked, “what then?”

Bracht offered no immediate reply, then, quietly, said, “She’ll order you slain. It is Lykard custom to behead offenders.”

Such a death was, Calandryll thought, a better end than crucifixion, but no more welcome. “The Younger Gods,” he muttered, frustration lending a note of anger to his voice. “Burash and Dera, they’ve aided us ere now—shall Ahrd not play his part?”

“Pray that he does,” said Bracht. “But I think I’ll not be there to see the outcome.”

“Three,” Katya murmured in a voice almost too low the others might hear her. “Three was ever the number. Save we be three, how shall we succeed?”

Bracht offered no answer, nor could Calandryll think of any response. It seemed, truly, that Rhythamun had snared them, and whether it was Bracht alone who died on the approaching morrow, or all of them, they had no chance now of defeating the
mage. He groaned, tilting his head back against the leathern walls, staring into the shadows as his mind roved in search of a solution.

F
OOD
came before he found any answer, delivered by a silent Lykard woman, two men flanking her with drawn blades, no more talkative, even though Bracht demanded to know whether or not his offer of werecoin was conveyed to the families of the dead, cursing them soundly when they failed to reply. The woman simply set down the basket she carried, her eyes darting from one face to another, and withdrew between the swordsmen. They, in turn, stepped back and closed the curtain, lacing it tight.

Outside, night had fallen. Within the cart-borne pavilion, the gloom, of both sight and spirits, heightened, and the prisoners fumbled for the contents of the pannier.

“They might, at least, grant us light,” Calandryll complained.

“And give us the chance to fire this wagon?” Bracht shook his head unseen. “Too great a danger, my friend.”

“Had I but the chance, I’d set torch to their whole camp,” Katya said, low and angry.

“The blame lies with Jehenne,” Bracht murmured. “Not the clan.”

“They follow her,” the warrior woman snapped. “They obey her.”

“As is the way of Cuan na’For.” Bracht’s voice was mild. “Save she go against clan law, they must.”

Katya snorted. Calandryll, extracting a haunch of meat from the basket, said, “Still, they feed us well enough.”

And that was true: the meat he found was venison, and while they must pass it from hand to hand, tearing with their teeth, it was good, with it a stew of cold vegetables, bread, cheese, even a flask of the tart wine. Such donation of creature comforts surprised
him, until he thought that likely it was the hospitality customarily offered the condemned, and that the stronger Bracht was, the longer he should suffer his crucifixion. After that, the food lost its taste and he ate mechanically, from instinct rather than appetite. He thought, as he chewed, that of them all, Bracht seemed the calmest, for all the Kern faced the least palatable fate. For himself and Katya there remained the chance of escape; Bracht was denied that hope, yet he showed no sign of fear. He was, Calandryll decided, a truly courageous man. It did not occur to him that he gave no time to his own potential demise, but thought entirely of the Kern.

Bracht, in turn, appeared concerned for his companions, and when they had eaten went to the curtain, asking that they be allowed to perform their toilet. Once more Calandryll was surprised by the odd courtesy of the Lykard, for they were promptly brought from the wagon, albeit under guard and separately, and escorted to leather-curtained latrines downstream of the wagons.

It was embarrassing to perform such personal duties surrounded by watchful men, but still it gave him the opportunity to study the camp a little further.

Fires were lit now, the largest at the center, where the largest carts stood, and he saw that folk were gathered there, seemingly engaged in argument. Their voices were muffled, but he thought that he heard anger, and once saw Jehenne on her feet, gesticulating furiously, and the two ghost-talkers. What it meant, he had no idea, nor, when he was returned to the prison cart, could Bracht enlighten him, save to suggest hopefully that the matter of the werecoin was debated.

There seemed little more to say after that, except, perhaps, their farewells, and those none wished to voice, still clinging, against all odds, to the impossible hope of some miracle. The debate was a background murmur, no more distinct than the ever-present
sounds of the horse herds, and in a little while they composed themselves to sleep.

Discreetly, Calandryll piled cushions at the entrance, as far from his companions as he might contrive. He thought perhaps their good-byes would be intimate, for Katya, rather than finding a place separate from Bracht as had always been her custom, stretched out beside the Kern, and Calandryll saw the silver of her mail-clad sleeve fall across the subfusc leather of Bracht’s tunic. He turned his back and closed his eyes, endeavoring to block his ears, too. Those organs, however, refused to cease their work, and though he buried his head beneath a cushion, still he could not help but catch snatches of their low-voiced conversation.

“I’d not lose you,” he heard Katya say, and Bracht’s reply, “You’ve not yet.”

Bodies shifted, the cart’s deck creaking slightly with the movement, and Calandryll felt his cheeks grow hot, no more able to dull his hearing than halt his breath.

“We vowed,” he heard from Bracht, the Kern’s tone shocking him, for it was filled with pent longing, and denial; and Katya whisper, “But then we could not know.”

“Even so,” came Bracht’s voice, “we vowed—until the Arcanum is destroyed.”

“Then likely never,” he heard Katya respond.

“If Ahrd wills it so,” Bracht murmured. “But a vow is a vow, and I’d not see you dishonored.”

“Honor!” Katya’s voice rose, then softened again. “Is that so important, now?”

“Aye,” Bracht said, gently earnest. “Yours and mine. I’d not go to my death robbed of that, nor have you discard yours on fate’s whim.”

Katya’s response was lost as Calandryll found another cushion to add to his barrier. His head grew hot, the cushions stifling, smelling faintly of horses. He thought perhaps he would escape Jehenne by suffocating, but then he heard the woman laugh softly, and
Bracht chuckle, though the cart did not creak or sway as he anticipated. Instead, something struck his barricade and Bracht’s voice came clear to his burning ears: “We hide nothing, Calandryll, and you’ve no need to hide yourself,”

He pushed up then, grateful for the fresher air, and saw the Kern with a second cushion ready to throw; he smiled, gesturing surrender.

“I thought,” he began. “I thought that . . .”

“Aye,” Bracht said, “and your tact is appreciated.”

“But this is an honorable man,” said Katya. “And so you may sleep comfortable.”

In her voice Calandryll heard respect, and love, like a hymn of praise, and he wondered, as he lay back, if he, in such circumstances, could exercise equal restraint.
Shall I ever know?
he thought as, like some welcome thief, sleep stole his senses.

H
E
was surprised to realize he had slept, for it seemed more appropriate that he should have spent the night awake, contemplating his life, holding vigil over his condemned friend, or worrying at his own fate. But light falling across his face and the gruff voices of the Lykard roused him and he opened his eyes to see a guard beckoning.

Again he was taken to the stream alone, washing, snatching what glimpses he could of the waking camp. The sun was barely over the horizon, heralding a high, bright day. Ground mist curled among the tents; cookfires burned, the central bonfire a smoldering pile now; children scurried among the carts, and all along the watercourse, folk bent to their own ablutions. When he was done, he was returned to the wagon, where another basket waited, this filled with bread and fruit, cheese, a jug of water.

The prisoners ate and waited: they could do no more.

Then, as dawn became morning, the curtain was flung back and they were summoned. A dozen warriors
surrounded them, bringing them to the camp’s center, where Jehenne stood, the drachomannii at her back, a knot of Lykard, men and women, to either side, their faces grave. These, as if accorded some special status, occupied the square formed by the wagons. The other folk—the entire camp, it seemed—looked on from a little distance, all silent.

“The kinfolk of the dead,” Bracht murmured, indicating those closest to Jehenne with a jut of his chin. “Best I speak—does she allow.”

The escort halted, shoving the prisoners forward, and for long moments, Jehenne studied them without speaking. The sun struck fire from her red hair, sparking over the platelets that decorated her leathers. Her left hand was clasped loose about the hilt of her sword, her right fisted at her side. Her eyes were alight with horrid anticipation, her smile predatory.

“Judgment is delivered,” she said at last, slowly, savoring the words, a gourmet at a ghastly feast. “For the insult given me, and the slaying of Lykard warriors, his trespass on our grazing lands, Bracht ni Errhyn is condemned to death.”

She paused; still all the onlookers remained silent. It seemed even the horses were still. Overhead, Calandryll heard a raven croak.

Then, her eyes intent on Bracht’s face, as if hungry for sight of fear there, she said, “You shall be taken from here and crucified.” Her right arm came up, her fist opening to display the nails she held. They were long, sharp-tipped, with heavy, flattened heads. “With these shall you be nailed to Ahrd’s tree—the god shall judge you then! Be it his will, these nails shall find no purchase, and you go free. Be you truly guilty, then you shall hang there until death release you, your bones testament to your iniquity. So are you judged.”

Calandryll heard breath come sharp from between Brack’s teeth, but the Kern’s face remained impassive, and though his tanned skin paled a fraction, he showed no overt sign of fear. Instead, he ducked his
head, once, meeting her gaze to demand, “And my comrades? My offer of werecoin?”

Jehenne’s full lips pursed then, her eyes narrowing, angered by her victim’s stoic acceptance. For his part, Calandryll felt his stomach turn, his skin grow cold, not sure whether in awful sympathy or fear for his own life. He squared his shoulders, standing straight, determined to show no more weakness than Bracht demonstrated. Though his eyes were fixed on Jehenne’s face, from the corner of his right he saw Katya glaring at the woman, her proud features flushed with rage.

“That is accepted.” Jehenne’s voice was thick, throbbing with barely controlled fury, her knuckles white as she clutched the nails. “They shall watch you hung on the tree and then may depart. But heed me—do either of you come again across my grass, you shall die as he does!”

Her face was a beautiful harpy’s mask as she signaled, and a man came forward to hand Bracht his saddlebags. The Kern fetched out the leathern pouch containing the money, passing it to the closet ghost-talker. The shaman loosed the drawstrings, spilling bright coins into his companion’s hands, and announced formally, “Werecoin is paid; gold for blood. Let there be no talk of vengeance.”

Bracht smiled then, and nodded, as though satisfied; Calandryll thought Jehenne would spit her ire. “A boon,” Bracht said.

“No!” Jehenne’s voice was strident. “Nothing!”

“It is the custom.”

This from a ghost-talker, echoed by the other. Among the Lykard closest to the woman a grey-haired man said, “It is the way, Jehenne,” the rest murmuring agreement.

Jehenne snarled aloud and gestured reluctant acceptance.

“I’d know of Daven Tyras,” Bracht said. “Where does he go?”

The woman laughed, injecting the sound with contempt.
“You pursue that fiction? Do you think any here believe your lies?”

“Where does he go?” Bracht repeated. “That I speak the truth of the shape-shifter, I think you know. Do you league with gharan-evur now, Jehenne? Do you worship the Mad God, as does he?”