Dark Magic (65 page)

Aye, she mused as the forest flashed by and the day aged toward evening, surely the Younger Gods must grant a boon to their savior. And surely the Younger Gods must have such power as could restore a revenant’s heart, and find it in their own to forgive past transgressions, were such a service done them.

But still Anomius owned her heart. Still it lay ensorcelled in that pyxis in Nhur-jabal, and even though the bonds placed upon the wizard by the Tyrant’s sorcerers denied him ready access to the palace until the war in Kandahar was ended, at some time he must return there. And what then? Then he would hold her being in his hand, and he was mad, and he was her master, and he could destroy her with a word.

Still, there was, perhaps, some thread here that she
might weave to a tighter pattern should opportunity come: she locked the thought in her mind as the sun went down and the Cuan na’Dru fell dark.

She rode through another night and into another day, and still the great forest lay to her right, vast and impassable, a dendriform wall, transformed by the sun into a barrier of shifting green shadows from which, she noticed, her undead mount kept a respectful distance. It seemed she could almost sense Ahrd’s presence, for along all the length of the edgewoods there was a kind of stillness, a ponderous solemnity, and she grew uneasy, wondering if the god looked out, watching her.

Toward noon, however, she was distracted by a curious sight. In the grass ahead she discerned the signs of a camp. Not one of the great clan gatherings, but such as a small group of travelers might make, the grass flattened, the remains of a long-cold campfire visible at the center of the trampled circle. Of itself that meant little enough, but as the gelding brought her closer she saw the signs of combat, corpses sprawled, picked over by wild dogs and carrion birds, a patch of dried blood, rusty red, as if something—or someone—had been butchered. She saw two heads separated from their accompanying bodies, and a torso devoid of limbs, the amputations strange to her, for it seemed unlikely the wild dogs would gnaw so precisely. She thought perhaps a fight had taken place and the losers been ritually mutilated, and thought no more about it, though she felt oddly glad when the littered battleground was left behind.

The gelding thundered on through the remainder of the day and then, when night was fallen, shifted direction once more. By the moon’s silvery light, Cennaire saw that they had reached the western edge of the Cuan na’Dru, and that the forest now stretched out northward. How far, she could not guess, for when the sun rose, it seemed still endless, and for all her mount’s supernatural speed, it seemed they must run forever with the trees ominous at her elbow.

Another day and most of another night they continued, and then, a little before dawn, she saw that the great stands of timber thinned, the massive oaks fewer, giving way to elder and rowan, thickets of blackthorn that straggled out as if reluctant to concede dominance to the prairie. As the sun came up she saw that the Cuan na’Dru lay at her back, and that ahead there again stretched the great grass sea, swaying and rustling in the wind. She felt a lightening of her mood then, the dendroid weight lifting as the forest receded shadowy behind, though in the deepest and most secret part of her mind she stored those musings she had entertained as she rode within Ahrd’s aegis.

T
HE
sun stood at its zenith as she saw another shadow impose itself upon the landscape, this a curving black line that meandered vast across her path, as though an enormous river of darkness flowed over the prairie. At first she felt confused, wondering what fresh obstacle this was, and why the gelding made no attempt to alter its course, but instead raced headlong onward. Then, as the afternoon aged, she realized that she had reached the Kess Imbrun and that what had appeared a river of night was the shadowy immensity of the rift canyon.

The gelding halted scant feet from the rim, as abruptly as it had commenced its englamoured gallop, so that Cennaire was flung forward, almost unsaddled, clutching at the beast’s neck, wide-eyed as she stared down into the depths of the chasm. Her nostrils wrinkled then, offended by an odor of decay as she felt the horse shudder and hauled herself upright. The smell came from the animal, and she frowned as she dismounted, springing a step backward as the equine lips parted to reveal a clutch of sickly yellow-white maggots that fell squirming onto the grass. The rotten stench grew stronger and she hurried to unlatch
her saddlebags, carrying them a little distance off, remaining there as she stared at the horse.

It seemed that, the animal’s task dispensed, it no longer enjoyed the protection of Anomius’s spell. It decayed before her eyes, its hide shrinking, stretching tight over the bones beneath, the dull eyes liquefying, oozing amorphous tears that ran slowly over the suddenly shrunken cheeks. The wound in its neck opened, exposing blackened flesh from which more maggots spilled, and then the legs folded, depositing the moldering body in an ungainly heap. Bones thrust out as the skin split and the wind became pungent with the odor of rotting organs. Briefly, Cennaire caught the waft of almonds amid the putrid stench, and then both were gone, the gelding’s corpse desiccated, as if many days dead.

Cennaire turned away, her stomach offended, taking deep breaths until the last memory of rot was banished. Then she looked about. South and east and west lay the grasslands, the northernmost limit of Cuan na’For; ahead was the Kess Imbrun, a barrier as dramatic, as imponderable as the Cuan na’Dru. She walked toward it, going down on hands and knees as she came to the edge, for it seemed the depths called out, a siren song that threatened to suck her in, seductive, urging her to succumb and cast herself off, to fly down and down to the rocks below. She stretched flat on the grass, the sheer immensity of the cleft sending her senses reeling, dizzy, as she peered down a vertical face of dark red stone, seeing, far, far below, a thin thread of glittering blue that she guessed was a river. The farther rimrock was hazy in the distance, several bowshots away, crenellated with folds and buttresses infinitely more majestic than any man-built constructions. Nhur-jabal itself, she thought, awed, might be lost in that chasm, like a child’s toy house dropped into a well. Some way off, eastward of her position, she saw the rimrock split, a steep-walled gully descending at an angle, widening where it bled out onto a broad ledge that traversed a buttress, a trail
of kinds evident there, winding precipitously downward: the Daggan Vhe, she assumed.

Cautiously, she wriggled back, and only when she was some several paces from the rim did she stand upright again and assess her situation.

She was alone and now unhorsed. Food and drink were meaningless to such as she, casual pleasures she could easily do without, but to be on foot was a matter of concern. Had her quarry already reached this lonely place? And if they had, what should she do? She ran to her saddlebags, hurriedly locating the mirror and speaking the gramarye that would summon Anomius. The scent of almonds reminded her of the decaying horse and she brought a perfumed handkerchief from her tunic, holding the cloth to her nostrils, startled by the wizard’s voice.

“You’ve reached the Kess Imbrun?”

“And the horse died!”

“It was already dead.” The sorcerer chuckled. “It served its purpose, though its remains shall still help.”

“I’m alone!”

“Ah well, not for very long.” Anomius seemed not at all disturbed by her discomfort; rather, he appeared greatly satisfied. “Be my calculations aright, then the three you seek are not yet come. When they do, they shall find you there.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

Cennaire looked around, the emptiness of the landscape pressing in, a psychic weight. Anomius grunted, his bulbous nose flaring in momentary irritation.

“Do you doubt me?”

“No.” Cennaire shook her head nervously. “But are you sure?”

“As much as my thaumaturgy permits, aye. Did that steed I gave you not cross the grass faster than mortal mount might manage? Has it not brought you to the Daggan Vhe?”

“If the Daggan Vhe is a track that goes down and
down into the canyon, then aye. But it’s a trail for goats or flies, not men,”

“Men use it.” He waved a peremptory gesture. “Listen, you’ve but to wait and they’ll come.”

Cennaire studied his unsightly features, her doubt visible, for he said, “I’ve scried all this with magicks beyond your comprehension, and I tell you that no matter what start they had, you’ve overtaken them. Rhythamun will have taken that trail and likely reached the Jesseryn Plain ere now, but your quarry’s yet to come there.”

“And so I’m to wait?”

“You’ll do as I bid.”

His tone was commanding, brooking no dissent. Cennaire was surprised to realize that her eyes were moist: she dabbed at them with her handkerchief and murmured, “This is a very lonely place.”

In the mirror, Anomius snorted. “Do you grow feelings now?” he asked scornfully. “Remember that your heart is mine, and you’ll do as I command.”

Cennaire nodded, crumpling the handkerchief in her fist as she muttered, “Aye.”

“Good. Then you’ve but to wait, and when they come they’ll find a poor, luckless woman, whose horse has died, leaving her stranded, alone.”

“And what shall I tell them I did out here? They’ll hardly take me for some Kern woman.”

“Aye, there’s that, but I’ve given the matter some thought,” Anomius agreed carelessly. “It’s not unknown for caravans to venture trading out of Lysse, and that shall be your story—that you rode with one such expedition. It fell foul of the northern clans and there was a fight. You alone escaped, fleeing helplessly until your horse died.”

“And shall they believe that?” asked Cennaire.

“Why not?” came the sorcerer’s reply. “You’re there, the remains of your horse are there. How else should you come to that place? Faith, woman! These are honorable folk we deal with, and they’ll take pity on you, and look to aid you in your plight.”

He invested the word “honorable” with massive contempt. Cennaire nodded again and said, “What if they send me back, southward?”

“Then I’ve another stratagem to devise,” he answered, “but I think they’ll travel alone and their sense of honor will require they aid you. Aye, I think they’ll take you with them to the Jesseryn Plain. Along the way, you’d best make yourself indispensable.” He leered, chuckling obscenely, “After all, there are two men and but the one woman. Save they share her, one of them must surely find your company attractive.”

He looked away then, as though distracted by some occurrence beyond the mirror’s range, and said, “Aye, a moment only.” Then, to Cennaire, “I am summoned. Our glorious Tyrant calls me. Do as I instruct you, and when you can safely speak again, summon me.”

He mouthed a gramarye and his image faded on a wafting of the almond scent. Cennaire sighed, staring at her reflection. The journey to this place had taken some toll, her clothes dusty, stained by travel, her hair fallen loose. She resisted the instinctive impulse to tidy herself, instead using her handkerchief to remove what little cosmetic remained upon her face: if she was cast as some fugitive traveler, then she had best look the part.

After that she waited, her role easier by the moment, for it seemed that she was the only human in all that emptiness, and she felt the weight of it afresh. She watched the sun go down, birds winging southward across the red-washed sky, and the filling moon rise pale to the east, attended by the filigree of bright-twinkling stars. The day’s heat waned, the breeze cool and gentle, smelling of dust and stone from the vast darkness of the Kess Imbrun. Far off, wild dogs howled, their cries faint and distant, and it occurred to Cennaire that few living things came close to the great chasm, as though its very vastness, its emptiness, erected a barrier. From choice, to alleviate the
discomfort she felt, she elected to sleep and dozed lightly, curled in the deep grass.

She woke as the sky paled toward dawn, pearly grey at first, then shining silver, brightening as a band of gold spread along the eastern horizon and, like a fast-drawn curtain, blue spread across the firmament, shot through with brilliance as the sun climbed majestic into the heavens. She made perfunctory toilet, drawing her hands through the dew-damp grass and cleansing her face, standing up to survey her surroundings, wondering how long it should be before here quarry came in sight, pushing aside the thought of what she might do if they failed to appear. And then she heard hoofbeats, a faint drumming, distant, but, so her preternatural senses told her, coming steadily onward, toward her. She listened a moment, frowning, for she heard but a single horse where she had expected three. Wary, she ran a little way from the ingress of the Daggan Vhe and crouched down, the high grass hiding her.

The hoofbeats came closer still and she discerned a lone rider, whose animal flagged, as if driven to the limits of its endurance. It and the burden it bore came into clear sight and she gasped, swiftly stifling the sound as she studied the features of the rider: a man, his hair a sandy color, his nose crook-bridged where it had once been broken, his eyes brown.

Daven Tyras, she thought, confusion and alarm mingling. Rhythamun! What do I do?

Her instinct was to fetch out the mirror and call on Anomius for advice, but then she thought that likely the approaching warlock would sense that summoning and turn his power against her—and Anomius had hinted at the power he commanded. Sufficient, she thought, to destroy her: she opted for caution and sank deeper into the grass, watching.

The sandy-haired man rode close to the chasm and halted, climbing down stiff-limbed, as if he had ridden long and hard. His horse blew gusty breaths, head drooping, its hide creamed with sweat, the shoulders
trembling, exhausted. The man dropped the reins and walked to the very edge of the Kess Imbrun, and Cennaire congratulated herself on remaining hidden as she watched him raise his arms and shout strange words into the stillness of the morning. They seemed to resonate against the walls of the chasm, echoing back, filling the air with crackling, invisible power, the strong, sweet scent of almonds. The rimrock of the canyon seemed to shimmer with the strength of his magic, the very air distorted. Cennaire felt her long hair prickle and sank deeper into the grass, losing sight of the man for a while, willing the fear she felt be gone.