Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (28 page)

 
          
"There's
little alternative here," Calandryll protested. "We know nothing of
Tezin-dar, so how can we study our opponents?"

 
          
"Unfortunately,
Calandryll is correct," interposed Varent. "Until you reach Gessyth
there is no way of telling what opposition you may encounter."

 
          
Bracht
grunted, nodding. '

 
          
"I
don't like it," he murmured.

 
          
"You've
come too far to renege now," Calandryll said.

 
          
Blue
eyes fixed him with a cold stare and Bracht said, "I do not speak of
reneging. I've agreed to accompany you and that I'll do. But it seems we walk
blind into Tezin- dar."

 
          
"You're
my only hope," Varent said, his voice earnest as the look he cast Bracht's
way. "The Arcanum
must
be destroyed."

 
          
The
Kern nodded, turning to the map. "Assuming wesucceed in taking the book,
it's a long way from Tezin-dar to the coast if we're pursued."

           
"Must we return to the
coast?" Calandryll indicated Tezin-dar with a fingertip; moved it to the
Valt
Mountains
. "Might we not flee to the
Geff
Pass
and cross into Kern? Follow the mountains
to the Gannshold crossing and come south through Lysse?"

 
          
"The
Geff?" Bracht shrugged. "In Cuan na'For that place is called Hell
Mouth. It's the domain of creatures to chill the blood. And beyond lies the
territory of the Lykard." He laughed, once, a cold bark. "I am not
very ... popular ... with the Lykard."

 
          
Calandryll
stared at him, inviting amplification, but Bracht shook his head. "Best
return the way we know— we'll travel faster."

 
          
"You'll
do it, then?" Varent asked.

 
          
"I
gave my word," said Bracht, bluntly.

 
          
Varent
relaxed visibly, his smile returning. "There's some small measure of
protection I can offer," he said. "If you'll accept magic as an
aid."

 
          
Bracht
eyed him for a moment, then nodded.

 
          
"I
think we'll need whatever aid you have."

 
          
"Wait
here."

 
          
Varent
rose, hurrying from the room. Silence fell with his departure, Bracht sitting
with dour mien, Calandryll lost in his own thoughts. He had been carried, he
realized, on a wave of excitement that had left him little time to contemplate
what he faced. The purpose was noble— of that he had no doubt—and Varent had
offered an escape from the odious fate planned by his father. With Bracht at
his side, and his own burgeoning swordsmanship, he had assumed they would
simply enter Tezin-dar and carry off the Arcanum, to return in triumph to
Lysse. That was the stuff of legend, the material of the balladeers, but now,
looking at Bracht's sober face, he forgot that romantic optimism.

 
          
"You
believe we may die," he said softly.

 
          
"Yes,"
Bracht answered. Then grinned: "But all men must die. It's no reason to
give up."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, presentiment twisting a cold, hard knot deep in his belly.

 
          
"Are
you afraid?" Bracht asked, still grinning.

 
          
He
thought for a moment, then nodded: "Yes."

 
          
"Good,"
said the mercenary, "a little fear will make you careful."

 
          
"And
a lot?" he wondered.

 
          
"Will
likely kill you," Bracht informed him cheerfully. "Control your fear
and it becomes an ally. Let it overwhelm you and you're dead."

 
          
Calandryll
was no longer sure whether the chill he suddenly felt represented a greater or
lesser weight. The hazards in their way seemed real now, rendered so by the
freesword's blunt practicality, by the realization that, in the final analysis,
they did not know what they faced. But he was committed: he could not turn
back; not now. The fate of the world rested with them: if they failed,
Azumandias would secure the Arcanum and raise the Mad God. That must not be! He
squared his shoulders, forcing a smile to his lips.

 
          
"I'll
play my part," he declared.

 
          
"No
doubt," said Bracht, to Calandryll's disappointment unimpressed.

 
          
The
door opened then and Varent entered, a small box of dark wood inlaid with
silver in his hand. He set it down and sprung the clasp, revealing an interior
lined with purple velvet on which rested an innocent-looking stone, drilled
through to allow its attachment to a simple leather thong. Varent removed it,
holding the thong, the stone revolving slowly, a dull camelian, save for a hint
of fire that seemed to flicker tentatively within its heart.

 
          
"This
serves a double purpose," he advised them. "The talent required for
the practice of magic is a rare commodity, and even those gifted with the power
may not employ it without arduous training. This stone, however, serves to
channel latent ability, enabling the wearer to utilize the simpler spells—with
it, you will be able to render yourself invisible. In addition, should you
encounter some glamour, the flame within will bum bright and the stone grow hot.
Should that happen, you will know that wizardry is close. I would urge you to
wear the stone at all times."

 
          
Calandryll
frowned incomprehension. "I am no mage," he demurred, echoed fiercer
by Bracht.

 
          
Varent
smiled and hung the red stone about his neck, murmuring soft, guttural words.
Where he stood the light shi
mm
ered, momentarily iridescent, and he was
gone, the scent of almonds drifting on the still air. Calandryll stared,
concentrating on the spot. He could see the walls of the ambassador's library,
see the window, but between there was a faint area of disruption, as if the
light itself stirred, as if the very stuff of the air was somehow agitated. Had
he not known that Varent stood there he would likely not have noticed, but by
squinting, by forcing his tired eyes to focus on the spot, he could just
perceive the shape of a man. Varent spoke again, and once more the room was
perfumed with almonds as he reappeared.

 
          
"I
believe you at least have the ability, Calandryll," he said, his voice
confident. "I felt it when we spoke in Secca, but this shall be the test.
And the stone is perhaps the way to the Arcanum."

 
          
"But
I have no talent for magic," Calandryll argued as Bracht frowned his
dislike of sortilege. "Were that so, surely my father's occultists should
have seen it."

 
          
"Those
dull fools?" Varent shook his head, removing the stone. "Trust me.
You must know the words, you must fix them in your mind and your pronunciation
must be exact. Of course, should you shed the talisman, the spell is
broken."

 
          
He
repeated the incantation, slowly, emphasizing the strange, tongue-twisting
syllables. Calandryll attempted to reproduce them, succeeding in a vague
approximation.

 
          
"Lower,"
Varent advised, "and the words must roll together, the emphasis always on
the second syllable."

 
          
Calandryll
tried again, eager to master the spell despite his skepticism. Bracht was less
enthusiastic, his innate dislike of magic making him an unwilling pupil, though
on the urging of Calandryll and Varent he aid his best to pronounce the arcane
words.

 
          
It
was not easy, the consonants fricative, the vowels drawn out, the language
seemingly designed for throats other than human. They practiced until Varent
was satisfied, then Calandryll was allowed to attempt the magic. He felt excited
as he hung the stone from his neck and murmured the cantrip. And felt his skin
tingle, his nostrils filled with the scent of almonds.

 
          
"Excellent,"
Varent applauded. "The talent is in you, as I surmised."

 
          
Calandryll
grinned delightedly and began to move about the room. He felt no different, nor
were any of his senses dulled by the magic, but he could see from the way
Bracht's eyes darted, trying to locate him, that the Kem was unsure of his
whereabouts. Grinning, he positioned himself close to the man and mouthed the
releasing spell. He felt the strange prickling again, smelled almonds as he
materialized at Bracht's shoulder, the freesword starting back in alarm.
Chuckling, Calandryll removed the stone and passed it to the Kem.

 
          
Bracht
took the talisman gingerly, clearly reluctant to attempt the glamour. "It
may save your life," Varent said, and Bracht grimaced, passing the tnong
over his head.

 
          
He
mouthed the spell: nothing happened. He repeated the strange words, and still
remained visible. A third attempt met with no better success and he shrugged,
an expression close to relief on his tanned face. Calandryll said, "Try
again," but Varent shook his head.

 
          
"I
fear your comrade lacks the basic talent essential to the spell. No matter—you
are the one who speaks the Old Tongue, and when you reach Tezin-dar it will be
you who recognizes the Arcanum; and I have but the single stone."

 
          
"Take
it." Bracht loosed the stone from his neck and handed it to Calandryll.
"I'd sooner tmst in my blade."

 
          
He
eyed the magical artifact dubiously, obviously pleased to be rid of it. It was,
Calandryll thought, the first time he had seen Bracht truly disconcerted.

 
          
His
own enthusiasm had replaced all doubts and he turned to Varent, beaming.
"With this we'll succeed," he declared fiercely, "We'll bring
the Arcanum out of Tezin- dar and thwart Azumandias."

 
          
"Let
us hope so," said Varent, returning his smile. "Remember those words,
my friend. Practice them, for the success of your quest may rest on them."

 
          
"I
shall," Calandryll promised.

 
          
"How
shall he recognize the book?" Bracht asked.

 
          
"The
stone will tell you. The same magic that protects it will reveal the Arcanum.
When the book is close the stone will bum. Now," Varent glanced at the
darkening sky, "I had best leave you—the Kand awaits me, and I'd arrange
your passage before he's too drunk to remember our agreement."

 
          
He
bowed formally, answered in kind by Calandryll, with a curt nod from Bracht,
and was gone again.

 
          
"I've
no love of magic/' Bracht responded gloomily. "Even though it aids us, I
don't like it."

 
          
"As
Lord Varent said, I'll be the one to use the stone." Calandryll repeated
the spell, and began to stride about the room, chuckling.

           
"No good comes of magic,"
Bracht grumbled at the empty air.

 
          
Calandryll
reappeared. "Then let's eat," he suggested. "Perhaps food will
put you in a better mood."

 
          
Bracht
nodded and they made their way to the dining hall.

 
          
Two
days later they prepared to leave. The sun had not yet risen and mist hung
thick in the courtyard of Varent's mansion, lending their departure a spectral,
clandestine air that Calandryll felt was entirely suitable to their purpose.
Aldarin still slumbered as they stowed what little aggage they brought with
them in the carriage Varent provided and waited on the ambassador. Calandryll
wore the red stone at his throat, the cloak and the map folded into a satchel
he slung across his back. The money Varent had given them—ample for their
needs—was divided between them, and Bracht's pay was secured in a pouched belt
beneath his jerkin. They watched as the ambassador prepared a spell he promised
would confuse Azuman- dias's spies, drawing faint symbols in blue chalk on both
sides of the carriage and the hooves of the horses, then sprinkling some
colorless liquid over animals and vehicle alike. Satisfied, he turned to face
them.