Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (65 page)

 
          
"Sorcerers'
stones," Ellhyn murmured, "and power in both. The one to seek, the
other to release. Sit down."

 
          
They
sat and she studied them each in turn, her eyes calm and black as midnight,
settling on Calandryll at tne last.

 
          
"There
is power in you," she said, "that you could use without the stone,
did you know the way of it. But now you need the stone. And doubt—much doubt, I
feel. Fear of betrayal."

 
          
To
Katya she said, "You travel far for what you seek, and fear who else may
find it," and to Bracht, "Your only magic is your honesty. Your trust
is precious." She paused then, silent for a while, her eyes faraway, then
smiled again and said, "My service costs ten of the golden varre you
carry."

 
          
Calandryll
fetched coins from the satchel and set them on the table. Ellhyn opened a
lacquered box that stood there and dropped the coins inside, taking from the
box a tasseled cord of woven silk that she spread ceremoniously across the
table. She took a knotted end in either hand and bade them each set hand in
place about the rope.

 
          
"Now
ask me what you will," she said, closing her eyes.

 
          
Katya
glanced at Calandryll, her eyes challenging. He looked to Bracht, who shrugged,
indicating that he should speak.

 
          
"I
would know," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "if this
woman speaks the truth. She says she comes from Vanu and means us no
harm."

 
          
Sunlight
bathed the spaewife's face in golden light, deepening the creases on brow and
cheeks. She nodded once, the trinkets in her hair jangling softly.

 
          
"Her
name is Katya and she has come from beyond the Borrhun-maj. From Vanu, on a
quest after that which you seek, which is . .." Abruptly, sweat glistened
on her brow and she shuddered, lips tight against clenched teeth. "Burash,
but there is fell power here! What you seek is better left unfound, lest it
bring down all the world. There are others seek that thing, and should they
find it . .."

 
          
Her
voice trembled into silence. Calandryll said, "Does she mean us
harm?"

 
          
"No!"
Ellhyn's voice came harsh from straining throat. "No harm from her—aid,
rather. Has one of my calling not already told you that two comrades walk your
path?"

 
          
"Their
names?" he asked, in a manner fearing the answer.

 
          
"The
warrior at your side, Bracht," the spaewife groaned, "and the woman
you doubt. Katya. Such doubt is madness! She is true, and your ways are one.
Trust her!"

 
          
A
vein throbbed at her temple, starting a tic that trembled one closed eye.
Calandryll stared at her, his thoughts in turmoil.
Trust her!
To trust
Katya was to believe all she had said; and that was to disbelieve another.

           
“Lord Varent den Tarl," he
demanded urgently. “Is there truth in him?"

           
“The name is unknown." It
seemed the words clogged Ellhyn's throat, each one spat out, laborious, like
bitter seeds. “But there is a shadow at your back that binds you with deceit
... Lies have been told you by that one ... Not her ... A prince of lies, who
would . .. No! I cannot!"

 
          
The
last word was a shriek. Her head flung back, hands snatching from the cord to
clasp at her neck, as if the words of the scrying burned, she rocking back and
forth as though nursing mortal hurt. Jirrhun and the girl appeared in the
doorway, the boy darting past them to throw protective arms about his mother,
anger on his young face, the girl standing wide-eyed, her gaze accusing.

 
          
“Wine,
and quickly!" Katya turned, gesturing at the girl.

           
The child looked to her brother, who
nodded, sending her running, returning with a brimming cup that she set upon
the tame. Jirrhun raised it to his mother's lips and said coldly, "Leave
now."

 
          
Ellhyn
shook her head, spilling purple droplets over her robe. "No, wait."
She sipped a little more and the trembling that shook her abated. She took the
cup from Jirrhun's hands and drank deeper, then smiled wanly at her son.
"Thank you, you did well. Both of you. But now, please leave
us."                                                   
.

 
          
Jirrhun
paused a moment, doubt writ clear on ins youthful face, then walked slowly from
the chamber, taking his sister's hand. Ellhyn drained the cup and set it down,
sighing.

 
          
"Burash,
but there's a darkness waiting." The spaewife shook her head again,
slowly, as though to clear it. "A darkness such as can swallow all the
world."

           
"Of whose making?"
Calandryll asked, the question met with a weary sigh.

           
"Of those long dead."
Ellhyn's hands, shaking, found the lacquered box unbidden, her eyes intent on
his face. "And better left dead."

 
          
He
watched as she removed a silver pipe, failed the bowl and struck a spark. The
sweet fumes of narcotic tobacco wafted on the hot air: the spaewife's
shuddering ceased as she breathed the drug.

 
          
“These
are riddles,” he said, aware that he had said the same words in another place,
far away; longer, it seemed, ago.

 
          
"I
can offer you no more." Ellhyn inhaled deeply, grunting her satisfaction.
"I can scry you only what is revealed me."

 
          
"Do
you name Lord Varent betrayer?" he demanded.

 
          
"I
know not that name." Ellhyn gestured with the pipe, stem indicating Katya.
"But I tell you this one is true— the second companion foretold."

 
          
This
one is true.

           
Logic collapsed. All his careful
arguments shattered against the rock of the spaewife's words. An awful cold
settled over him and he clutched his arms across his chest, rocking forward as
does a man deep-chilled and seeking warmth, seeking to reject the cold that was
acceptance of her scrying. Dimly he heard Bracht say, "In Lysse a
byah
spoke
of treachery. Was that warning of Varent?"

 
          
Ellhyn
shook her head once more, in negation now. "I do not know that name,"
she repeated. "Katya, Bracht, Calandryll den Karynth—these came to me, but
not that one. The tree spirits utter only truth, this much I know— did this
byah
say the name?"

 
          
"No,"
Bracht said, "only warned against treachery."

 
          
Ellhyn
shrugged, sucking deep on the pipe.

           
"And you perceived no
treachery in Katya?"

 
          
"Only
truth. You three are bound in a design beyond my ability to comprehend."

 
          
This
one is true.

           
And therefore, another is not.
Another lies: the cold bit deeper and he began to shiver, unaware of the hand
Bracht set upon his shoulder. Men lay dead by his hand because he had believed
the lie,- his own life was forfeit because he had believed the lie. The
shivering became a bitter chuckle. How he had prided himself on the deception
of Anomius— the cunning web of duplicity he had spun, tangling the sorcerer, a
greedy fly ensnared in the spider's mesh of words, of promises, of ambitions.
And all the time he was the fly in Varent's web. Savior of the world? A
messenger boy, no more. He groaned, reft by the pain of betrayal, the
foundations of his belief, his confidence, shaken.

 
          
This
one is true.

           
Katya true; Varent not.

 
          
Deception
cloaks your path and you must choose your friends with care. Beware the face of
lies ... Remember that when the deceiver spins his web....

           
The
byah
had spoken, just as
Bracht believed, of Varent.

 
          
This
one is true.

           
Then likely all she said was true:
Varent was no aristocrat of Aldarin, but what Katya told them—a warlock, untold
ages old and steeped in evil, the ambitions ascribed Azumandias his. He sought
the Arcanum not to destroy it, but to raise the Mad God himself. He would visit
cnaos on the world; and close—how close! he came to succeeding, thanks to his
unwitting, witless, dupe.

 
          
Katya
true; Varent not.

 
          
The
awful knowledge dinned against the walls of his mind. The cold bit harder,
fierce as a knife. Insane he had called Bracht for the Kern's faith in the
woman, a bitter irony, for Bracht had seen what he could not, seduced by
Varent's—Rhythamun's!—soft words, his lying promises. He would have seen Katya
slain; would have delivered the Arcanum into Varent's hands. No, not Varent's.
Varent den Tarl was not his name and likely not his face, but Rhythamun; and
what face owned that name he could not say. He grew aware of a pressure against
his lips and opened his mouth, feeling liquid enter, wine that he swallowed
unthinking and began to choke. A hand pounded at his back, another wiped his
mouth. The cup came again and he drank. A third time. His vision cleared and he
saw Ellhyn studying him across the table, her homely face troubled. Bracht
knelt beside him, his arm as much comfort as support. He turned to Katya,
apology in his eyes, and she met him with a smile, her grey gaze clear, no
triumph m it, but concern.

 
          
“Forgive
me," he mumbled. “Forgive my doubts.

 
          
The
flaxen head ducked in acceptance: she set a hand upon his arm, the pressure of
her fingers her answer. He essayed a smile that seemed to stretch his cheeks in
rictus grin a death's-head grimace, lorn of all the confidence he had known,
that lost on the spaewife's scrying. He wiped a hand over his face, feeling it
wet, and mbbed, embarrassed, at his eyes, forcing his back straight as he faced
Ellhyn.

 
          
"The
stone," he said, voice hoarse, "that Varent gave me. Does that grant
him power over me? Might he control me through the talisman?"

 
          
"The
stone is a tool," she answered, her own voice husky now from the narcotic
tobacco, gesturing at the tasseled cord, "as that is. It unleashes power
already yours."

 
          
"Power?"
he asked numbly, not wanting such power; wanting nothing of magic and
magicians. "Do you name me sorcerer?"

 
          
"No."
The spaewife laughed, briefly. "It is not so simple, magic. It is a
talent—an ability—that some have and others not. To use it requires study,
knowledge. Long years of tutelage. There is ability in you, and the stone may
sometimes focus that ability, but I do not think you can control it."

 
          
He
nodded, thinking that he had believed himself wise, educated, yet Bracht had
seen what he had not. Had seen the truth from the start.

 
          
"Azumandias,"
he rasped. "Do you know that name?"

 
          
The
spaewife shook her head.

 
          
"Rhythamun,
then?"

 
          
Again,
the negative.

 
          
"There
was much hidden," she said, the words slurring somewhat, "and I would
not probe that darkness again. It hides things too terrible. Perhaps these
names are hidden there—I do not know. I tell you, though, that what you seek is
better left lost."

 
          
"For
others to find?" Now he shook his head, warmed by the wine, the cold
giving way to heat, to anger. "For the liars and the deceivers to find and
use? No. Not that."