Dark Magic (63 page)

The bottle was soon drained. The two Kerns beamed slackmouthed, observing her with glazed and lustful eyes.

“Ahrd, but this vintage is powerful.” Gart’s words came slurred. “My head spins.”

Kythan chuckled, lolling in his chair, threatening to turn it over as he nudged his brother. “Surely you’d not so offend this lady?” he mumbled, raising an empty cup in toast to Cennaire.

She favoured him with a radiant smile and said, “Tell me of Bracht and his companions. Where do they go? Why do they quest so?”

T
HE
night was passed as Cennaire drew the shutters closed over the windows of her room and lit two candles for all the early morning sun shone outside, and even in the mountains the days grew warm. Checking her door was bolted shut, she fetched the ensorcelled mirror from its wrappings and set to polishing the gleaming surface, absentmindedly studying her reflected image as she sought to compose her thoughts, not yet ready to utter the words that would replace her face with that of Anomius, wondering at the enormity of all she had learned and what it meant for her.

As a child she had heard the ancient tales of the Godwars, of how Tharn had waxed prideful, vying with his brother Balatur until all the world lay in ruins; of how the god had gone down into madness, and his parents, his creators—Yl and Kyta—had set him and his sibling both aside, banishing them to a dreaming limbo, their places taken by the Younger Gods. And she had forgotten, as children do, that in such tales there lies often truth; as an adult, she had thought nothing of such things, being, as is the way of the full-grown, far more concerned with her own affairs than with such vague matters of theology and myth.

Now it seemed the seed of truth in those old tales sprouted, preparing to spring up full-blown again—if what she had learned from Gart and Kythan was true. She frowned a moment, then smoothed her unlined brow, her lips pursing. Of how Anomius would take this startling news she entertained little doubt: he
would want the book, the Arcanum. Of how it might affect her, however, she could only guess, and that with little enough certainty.

The ugly little sorcerer held her heart, and thus held her in sway, his to command on threat of destruction. That he would order her to follow, she did not doubt; that he lusted still for revenge, she did not doubt. But should she secure him the Arcanum . . . what then? Would he, like this other, seek to raise the Mad God? Did she want that?

It felt strange to ponder such matters, as if the fate of the world lay in her hands. This world she knew; such a world as Tharn would make, were he resurrected, would surely be a stranger place. And could the Mad God feel gratitude for those who brought him back? She smiled, wryly, thinking that a priest might better answer those musings than a heartless courtesan, a revenant created by fell magic. Indeed—her smile became a cynical chuckle—a priest, whether of Burash or Dera or the tree god, Ahrd, would likely condemn her out of hand, for all her existence was Anomius’s doing, and she no say in it, save to obey.

She thought then, her smile dying, what concern of hers was the world? It had treated her unkind enough, and why should she hesitate to advise her master that the Arcanum was the goal of her quarry’s quest? But still she did, for reasons she could neither articulate nor define.

She had the knowledge now, but what was she to do with it? Anomius yet held her heart, and even though he rode with the Tyrant’s army, and could not, without consent of the Tyrant’s Sorcerers, return to Nhur-jabal, still there must come a time. And then, did she hold back this truth, surely he would snuff out her existence, spitefully. But if she told him, would the world she knew end? Did she bring him the Arcanum, would he still have use for her, or cast her off, redundant?

It was an imponderable problem, a thing of doubts
and ethics, which she was ill-equipped to consider. To Cennaire, life was a simple matter of pleasure’s attainment and the avoidance of pain; and were the Mad God raised, she did not know which might take precedence. She felt certain of only three things:
that Anomius would want the Arcanum for his own; that Anomius was mad; and that it was likely impossible to deceive him.
And a fourth, she thought, slowly setting down the scrap of silk as she stared into the glassy surface of the mirror—that Anomius holds my heart, and therefore I must be very careful.

Slowly, she began to speak the words he had taught her.

The mirror darkened, then filled with shifting colors even as the air was filled with the sweet scent of almonds. The swirling hues eddied, like colored oils in water, resolving slowly into the sallow features of the mage, all bulbous, wart-pocked nose and pale, demanding eyes. Cennaire leaned closer as he spoke, his voice a whisper.

“What have you learned?”

“Much,” she said. “Things change.”

“Tell me.”

His voice, for all it came rustling and faint, was imperious. Cennaire paused a moment, pink tongue flicking over full lips, then said: “They have left Gannshold for Cuan na’For. They still pursue Daven Tyras, but he is not Daven Tyras.”

“I know this. He is Varent den Tarl, or was.”

“No. Before that he was Rhythamun. He is ancient . . .” She almost said, “older than you, even,” but caught herself. “. . . centuries old, and the grimoire is not a grimoire.”

“What riddle is this? Speak plain, woman, lest you know my anger.”

“This Rhythamun took the shape of Varent den Tarl, that he might secure a chart from the archives in Lysse. He tricked Calandryll and Bracht into traveling to Tezin-dar to secure the Arcanum . . .”

“The Arcanum?” Stark surprise edged the wizard’s
voice blade-sharp. He brought his face closer to the glass, his watery eyes wide an instant, then narrowed. “Do you tell me they pursue the Arcanum?”

“You know of it?”

“Of course. What sorcerer has not heard of that book? By all the gods, that tome is power incarnate! Go on.”

“He—Rhythamun—seized it, carried it back to Lysse. They followed him . . .”

“The Vanu woman, she’s with them?”

“Katya, aye. She went with them into Cuan na’For.”

“So, that mystery resolves.” In the glass, Anomius nodded, rubbing at his nose. “Doubtless the hierophants of Vanu scried what was afoot and sent her out. But still the three, only? And into Cuan na’For?”

“Aye, with Rhythamun far ahead, in the shape of Daven Tyras.”

“The easier to cross the grass. Riding northward?”

“So I was told.”

“Ah, quite. By whom?”

“Two Kerns, Gart and Kythan, of Bracht’s clan.”

“How did they know?”

“Bracht sought their aid.”

Cennaire told of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s pledged vengeance and the help the brothers had given, all they had told her. When she was done Anomius grunted and asked, “You’re sure of this?”

She nodded and said, “I employed a decoction to loosen their tongues; such as ensures the truth, without memory after.”

“You let them live?”

He sounded surprised. Cennaire nodded again: “I saw no worth in slaying them. And I was seen with them—had they been found dead there might well be questions asked about me.”

Anomius grunted, tugging for a moment on the hairs that clustered within his nostrils. Cennaire waited.

“So. Gone into Cuan na’For after this Rhythamun, you say?”

“So I learned.”

“Northward,” Anomius murmured thoughtfully. “The Arcanum in Rhythamun’s hands; the three in pursuit. No doubt Rhythamun looks to raise the Mad God, to curry favor with Tharn, Well, he shall not! No, that prize shall be mine!”

“How shall you take it?” Cennaire asked. “Cuan na’For is vast.”

“Cuan na’For is no more than a step along the way.” The wizard’s eyes grew distant as he thought. “Aye, and the Jesseryn Plain, too. Does this Rhythamun look to raise Tharn, then he looks beyond the places known to men. I’d hazard a guess he travels for the Borrhun-maj and beyond.”

“Surely the Borrhun-maj marks the world’s limit.”

“And what should a creature of the bedchamber know of such matters?” Anomius snarled laughter, scornfully dismissing her comment. “The limit of one world is but the beginning of another. Aye, I’ll wager that’s where he goes, and they after him.”

“Do they survive this Lykard woman.”

“They’ve the gods’ own luck. How else did they trick me? It’s my belief they will, but now I know what game’s afoot and can better play my hand.”

Quickly Cennaire asked, “How shall you do that? Do you come to Lysse, or Cuan na’For, to take up the chase?”

The wizard’s ugly face darkened at that and he raised his hands, displaying the bracelets that gleamed dully about his wrists, shaking them as he shook his head.

“I cannot while these cursed ornaments fetter me.”

Before he had opportunity to continue, Cennaire asked, “Where are you now?”

“Marching eastward from Kesham-vaj,” came the sullen answer. “The Tyrant’s chosen to secure his coastline ere we assault Fayne Keep. That shall be our final conquest, he says, and before we go against that
fortress, we must take Mherut-yi and the other seaward cities.”

And so cannot return to Nhur-jabal, thought Cennaire, where my heart beats in your magical box. Aloud, she said, “What would you have me do then?”

“Go after them,” said Anomius.

“Not after Rhythamun?”

“No. I begin to perceive a design in this affair. Burash! Had I the freedom of Nhur-jabal’s libraries . . .” He hesitated, delving in his nose. “But no matter—it’s my guess those three are foreordained to hunt him, and so have the better chance of finding him.”

He fell silent, lost for a moment in contemplation. Cennaire thought she had never seen him so uncertain, sensing his plans changed to accommodate this new information. Patiently, she waited for him to speak again, and after a while he ducked his head, muttering to himself, then speaking, louder, to her.

“That must be the way of it: it explains the presence of the Vanu woman. Aye, their quest is likely now to take the book from Rhythamun, and if that be their destiny, then they’re the more likely to succeed. In the finding, at least.”

“But not the taking?” Cennaire asked.

Anomius chuckled—a horrid, bubbling sound—and said, “Perhaps; perhaps not. Rhythamun must command powerful magicks to have got so far, and do they confront him, the outcome may go the one way or the other. Whichever, it changes our game.”

“How so?”

Anomius spat contemptuously. “Because the three are now important to me, fool! If foreordained they be, then slaying them loses me a greater prize. I’d have the Arcanum for my own, and now it seems they lead me to it. Aye, they become my allies in this game—like hounds that point me to my prize.”

“Surely they’ll not lend themselves to aid you?”

In the mirror, Anomius ground his yellow teeth. “By all the gods,” he snapped, “am I ever served by
fools? Of course they’ll not aid me, do they know what they do. But unwitting, then they shall.”

Cennaire bristled at his insults, concealing her irritation with the long-practiced skill of her old trade, her face calm.

“Listen,” Anomius told her, “Calandryll, Bracht, the Vanu woman, would seem to have some clue to Rhythamun’s direction. If I guess aright, they’re on his trail, and with far better chance than you of finding him. Does he reach the Jesseryn Plain, then likely hell take another’s form and prove the harder to find. So . . . your task now is to join them.”

“Join them?” Cennaire could not conceal her surprise. “I thought you sought their deaths?”

“I did,” came the answer, “before this news. In time, I’ll still have my revenge, but for now they become useful to me. No, you’ll aid them, rather than slay them. You’ll find them and go with them. Stay with them until they find Rhythamun, then take the Arcanum. That above all! If you must slay them to take the book, do it. But the book is the thing! Bring me that and I’ve power beyond imagining. Even leave them live if you must, only bring me that book.”

His excitement was a palpable thing, intense enough it seemed that even separated by so many leagues, by all the width of the Narrow Sea, still Cennaire could smell it flooding out of the mirror. She watched him wipe spittle from his fleshy lips, smiling now, like a miser contemplating his hoard, or a ghoul a grave. Warily, she said, “They’re long gone into Cuan na’For. How shall I find them? How shall I overtake them?”

“They go north,” he answered, “across the grass. If this Lykard woman seeks to revenge herself on Bracht, then they must travel cautiously, and that must surely slow them. I’ll provide you with such a steed as shall outrun the wind itself. As for finding them . . .” He paused, gnawing at his lower lip, then nodded, chuckling. “Aye, they go northward to the Jesseryn Plain, so they must cross the Kess Imbrun.
That chasm has few enough crossing places, so they—and Rhythamun, too—will look for the closest, the easiest; and that is the way the Kerns call the Blood Road, the Daggan Vhe. You’ll go there and, the gods willing, arrive before them.”

Cennaire doubted the gods would be willing to fur-ther a design likely to result in their destruction, but that thought she held to herself. To Anomius, she said: “I’ve scant knowledge of Cuan na’For, nor are there roads or towns. How shall I find this Daggan Vhe without delaying to inquire of folk unlikely to bid me ready welcome? And how persuade the three to take me with them?”

“The finding you can leave to me; the persuasion I leave to you. Burash, woman, were you not a courtesan?” Anomius gestured impatiently. “You’ve a horse? If not, go out and purchase one. Time is our enemy now, and I’d not see it wasted. Heed me! Take only what you must—no more than will fill your saddlebags—and on the instant. Ride north along the Gann Pass, and immediately you’re clear of prying eyes use the mirror again. You understand?”

Cennaire said, “I do,” and began to speak again, but the sorcerer waved her silent, ending their communication with an abrupt gesture, so that she could only watch, frowning, as his image wavered, the almond scent wafting once more as the glass cleared, becoming a silver-surfaced vanity, innocent.

She sat a moment, lost in thought, then shrugged, stowing the mirror back in its protective sack. It seemed impossible that she could now catch up with her quarry, and yet Anomius had evinced no doubt that his glamours would bring her to them, or to where they went. She wondered how he might affect that meeting as she began to gather up those things she deemed necessary to her journey.