Dark Magic (51 page)

Bracht’s tone was earnest and it seemed Jehenne considered the offer. Or, more likely, Calandryll thought, toyed with the Kern, toyed with them all. There was about her an air of knowingness that
seemed to him a thing apart from her desire for revenge, and he felt, intuitively, that she held back some knowledge.

“I named your father my price,” she said at last. “And that was not so much, but still he compounded the insult.”

“He’d not see me crucified,” Bracht said. “For which you surely cannot blame him.”

“No,” Jehenne allowed. “But you . . . I can blame you, and easily.”

“Aye,” said Bracht, “or think yourself well rid of a poor husband.”

“Would that have been the case?” The green eyes turned a moment toward Katya. “You once thought otherwise. Do your affections now find another home?”

Bracht’s expression was answer enough; Jehenne chuckled. Bracht said, “Might four thousand varre not assuage the hurt?”

“Might I not have that and satisfaction, both?”

“Were you devoid of honor, aye. But I do not believe you devoid of honor. Do you take the werecoin and your vengeance, together, then are you better than some common bandit?”

“I am ketomana of the ni Larrhyn.” For an instant the casual mask dropped and Jehenne’s voice grew sharp, her eyes flashing dangerously. “My word is law here.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Bracht agreed. “But still . . . it would not be honorable.”

Calandryll guessed that his words were directed as much at the other Lykard as at Jehenne, that Bracht sought to gain some leverage, if not for himself, then for his companions. He waited for Jehenne’s reply, his own mind racing as he sought some gambit he might use, some way in which he might assist Bracht.

“Perhaps,” Jehenne murmured, her expression bland, “there is something in that. But what you did was hardly honorable.”

“Then punish me,” Bracht said. “Let my companions go. Take the werecoin for their lives,”

Calandryll heard Katya’s sharp intake of breath; saw, from the corner of his eye, her body tense. He held himself still, concentrating on Jehenne’s face, and saw her smile again.

“Are their hands not stained with Lykard blood?” she asked.

“We were attacked,” said Bracht quickly. “We sought no fight, but your folk came on us and offered us no choice.”

“You trespass on our grass,” came the woman’s reply. “What should they do, save attack?”

“It was an honest fight,” Bracht said, “and they were seven to our three. Surely that might be settled with werecoin.”

Jehenne was seated apart from her fellows and Calandryll’s gaze flickered from her face to theirs. He was uncertain what he saw there, but sure now that Bracht sought to sway them, that they, in turn, might influence their leader.

“It might,” Jehenne admitted. “Though a question hangs thereon—why do you cross my grass?”

Bracht paused before replying, turning briefly to Calandryll, his eyes framing a silent question; Calandryll nodded.

“We hunt a man,” Bracht said then. “A half-blood of the ni Brhyn who names himself Daven Tyras.”

Jehenne nodded and Calandryll saw unfeigned amusement in her eyes. He felt cold shock as he sensed this announcement was not unexpected, staring at her, wondering what it was she held back.

“Why?” she asked bluntly.

Again Bracht paused, as if weighing the situation, as if he balanced revelation against the likelihood of disbelief. Calandryll felt an ugly certainty descend and said, “She knows,” and saw Jehenne’s eyes narrow, fixing on him.

“What do I know?” she demanded coldly, raising a
hand to silence Bracht’s reply. “No! Let this young outlaw tell me.”

Calandryll swallowed wine, not tasting it. There was nothing gained by prevarication, he decided; perhaps lives lost by concealment. Gart and Kythan had expressed disgust at the notion of shape-shifting; perhaps these Lykard would feel the same. He set down his cup and said carefully, “Daven Tyras is a shape-shifter, gharan-evur. His body was taken by Varent den Tarl of Aldarin, whose life, in turn, was taken by a warlock named Rhythamun. Rhythamun seeks to raise the Mad God; we seek to prevent him.”

“Ah.” Jehenne’s response was deceptively mild; it confirmed his worst suspicions. “You quest to save us all from Tharn.”

“Aye,” he cried fiercely, unable to help himself in face of her indifference. “And do you halt us, then you condemn the world to chaos.”

“So I had best let you go? You and Katya, and Bracht, too?”

“Aye,” was all he could say as Jehenne laughed.

“A poor attempt.” She chuckled. “Daven Tyras warned of your cunning tongue.”

“You know him?”

Bracht’s question was sharp, as if he, not the woman, commanded here: Jehenne favored him with an angry glare, no longer masking her expression. “I know him,” she said. “Is he not, in part, at least, Lykard?”

“He’s gharan-evur!” Bracht rasped. “That body is a skin he uses, nothing more. In Ahrd’s name, Jehenne! Do you shield him, you condemn your soul.”

“And you wriggle to escape your rightful fate,” she returned, her voice spiteful now. “Just as Daven Tyras said you would.”

“Ahrd!” Bracht grunted. “He’s seduced you with his lies.”

“As you once did,” she retorted.

“Let your ghost-talkers scry us,” Calandryll asked. “Let them examine us and you’ll have the truth.”

“Of that, too, he warned me,” said Jehenne. “That you have magic in you to deceive the ghost-talkers. So—no; their part was done when they found you. The rest is mine.”

Calandryll groaned as he felt hope dwindle, its faint flame doused by Rhythamun’s subtlety. The sorcerer outthought them, left behind more defenses than the raised corpses of dire-wolves. He saw it now: that the mage used the truth itself to thwart pursuit, that he took Jehenne’s lust for vengeance and molded it to his own needs.

“Blind vengeance?” he heard Bracht demand. “Ahrd, woman, if it’s blood you must have, then take mine. But let these two go!”

“And take your werecoin in their place?” Jehenne resumed her guise of affability. “Your life and four thousand varre for their freedom?”

“Aye,” Bracht said.

“No!” Katya cried, speaking for the first time, rising partway from the cushions in her urgency, so that across the table the watching Lykard grasped their dirks. She sank back, but still her voice was fierce, her gaze intent on Jehenne’s face. “Listen! What Bracht, what Calandryll, tells you is the truth. I am of Vanu, and the holy men of my land sent me to find them, to secure the Arcanum that it might be destroyed. Spaewives and sorcerers have scried there must be three to secure that end, and if you slay Bracht, you grant Rhythamun the victory. Slay Bracht and you’ve the world’s blood on your hands!”

Jehenne’s brows arched in open mockery. “A pretty speech,” she remarked. “But tell me, what is the Arcanum?”

It was Calandryll who answered: “An ancient book that tells where Tharn was banished by the First Gods. The gramaryes of unlocking, Rhythamun has already. With the book, he may find Tharn’s tomb and raise the Mad God.”

“I see.” Contempt dripped from Jehenne’s words. “A magic book, a shape-shifter, holy men from a land
beyond the Borrhun-maj; and you three questing to save the world . . . Such a tale as the bards spin. Filled with romance, but little substance.”

“Let your ghost-talkers scry us,” he asked again, desperately. “Let them determine the truth.”

“Or you deceive them.” Jehenne shook her head. “I think not; I think I shall judge this.”

Calandryll looked at her face and saw no hope. Her eyes were cold now, and if any amusement remained there, it was the malevolent humor the contemplation of their fate afforded her, a dreadful satisfaction that she might, at last, take her revenge for the slight Bracht had given. All else, to this woman, was incidental: there was a madness in her, born of pride, a gift to Rhythamun. He looked to the other Lykard, not so familiar with the folk of Cuan na’For that he could be sure he read their expressions aright. Their features were composed, impassive, but in a few eyes he thought—or hoped—he saw a measure of doubt.

“Do you fear the truth so much?” he asked, aware he clutched at a straw, not knowing what else to do, save concede Rhythamun the victory. “Are you afraid the ghost-talkers might deny you your vengeance?”

Jehenne’s hand flashed out and he jerked back as the contents of her cup splashed over his face. He wiped it clean, wondering if he had achieved anything save to stoke the fires of her anger. Had she worn a blade, he had no doubt it would have been steel that touched his flesh. He watched as she composed herself, the effort visible.

“Your fate I’ve yet to decide, but you serve yourselves ill with these feeble fantasies.” Her voice was sharp as any blade, her eyes furious as they fastened on Bracht. “I had expected a measure of courage from you, Bracht ni Errhyn. Not that you’d look to hide behind this tissue of lies.”

“You hear only the truth,” Bracht said quietly. “What lies there are come from Rhythamun. But you’ve not the ears to hear them, nor the eyes to see the straight path.”

Jehenne’s lips stretched in a wide smile, prompting Calandryll to think of a cat as it contemplates a trapped mouse, enjoying the suffering of its victim. “I see the path clear enough,” she said. “It leads to a tree, where you shall hang nailed. Where the birds shall peck out your eyes and the dogs gorge on your flesh. You are judged, Bracht ni Errhyn, and on the morrow I shall crucify you.”

Bracht nodded once, his dark face like granite, denying her the satisfaction of his fear. He said, “And my companions? Do you take my werecoin for their lives?”

“That, I shall sleep on,” answered Jehenne, and turned to her followers. “Now take them away.”

T
HEY
were taken from Jehenne’s opulent wagon to another, smaller and empty of such luxury, but comfortable enough for all it smelled of leather and oiled metal, as if customarily used for the transport of materials. Its covering was hide, tight-stitched and windowless, the entry curtain a single flap that was laced shut behind them. Plain cushions were scattered over the bare planks of the floor, and when Bracht pressed an eye to the curtain, he announced two men stood below, likely more guards invisible beyond. Enclosed, they were in a twilight fusty from the afternoon’s heat, with little to do save stretch on the cushions and curse their fate.

“He thought ahead of us,” Calandryll said, his voice bitter. “With the memories of Daven Tyras to guide him, he uses Jehenne’s hatred to thwart us.”

“Aye,” said Bracht, “but where is he? Not here, I think, for were he, surely he’d come to gloat.”

“What matter?” asked Katya. “We’re doomed.”

Her voice was husky, as if she fought back tears, or held rage in narrow check. Calandryll saw Bracht reach out to touch her cheek, gently, his reply soft.

“I am, it seems; but perhaps not you or Calandryll.”

“What?” Now scorn, frustration, entered the warrior woman’s tone. “She’s mad, and sees what lies between us—she’ll slay me for that; Calandryll for the fact of his friendship.”

“Perhaps not.” Bracht’s voice grew thoughtful. “Her claim on me is valid, but against you the only charge can be the slaying of those seven warriors, and I offered werecoin for that. By the ways of Cuan na’For, it must be the kin of the dead who decide the aye or nay there.”

Calandryll heard Katya moan, her response muffled as her head sank, her hair falling in a flaxen curtain about her face, that held in both of her hands.

“And do they decide to let us go? Are we to ride on, while you hang nailed to a tree?”

“Aye,” said Bracht. “As we agreed.”

Katya’s shoulders trembled, and from between her hands there came a sound Calandryll did not at first recognize: he had never thought to hear her weep. He watched helplessly as Bracht set an arm about her, drawing her close, so that she rested against his chest. He was surprised she made no move to escape the Kern’s embrace, but lay against him as he stroked her hair, his voice a calm murmur in the darkness.

“Rhythamun is gone from here, else we’d have seen him. He must, therefore, continue on his way, and you must go after him. Listen”—he held her chin, turning her face toward his—“Jehenne will nail me to the tree, surely; but no man lives forever, and you’ve still a duty to perform. You’ve not let what’s between us halt that yet, and you shall not now. You must not! I think I likely sowed sufficient seed among these ni Larrhyn that Jehenne shall be forced to agree to the acceptance of werecoin for your lives, or stand doubted as their leader. And in my saddlebags are the tokens of safe passage to see you safe over the lands of the other clans. If you can, learn where Rhythamun goes; if not, go on to the Cuan na’Dru, and seek Ahrd’s guidance. But go on you must, or all we’ve done—and all there is between us—comes to naught.”

His smile was resolute and in a while Katya nodded. Delicately, he brushed her cheeks, though in the shadows it was too dim that Calandryll might see if tears lay there. He thought they did, but then Katya sighed and straightened, seeming almost to regret such demonstration of frail emotion as she shifted from the compass of Bracht’s arms. Though not far, composing herself, leaning back against the cart’s side, her shoulder hard against the Kern’s.