The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (20 page)

“I agree,” said Doms unexpectedly. “But it makes your situation more difficult, don’t you think?”

As much as Ninianee wanted to confide in Doms, she couldn’t bring herself to do it, for that would expose more of her fears than she wanted him to know. So instead of appealing to him as a lover, she commanded him as a Duzna. “I think that my first obligation is to protect Vildecaz, and, as he is Duz of Vildecaz, my father. If you are willing to help me do that, then I am grateful.”

Doms sighed. “I’ll do what I can, because you are Ninianee, not because you are Duzna of Vildecaz.”

She unbent a bit. “Thank you, Doms Guyon. I am in your debt.”

“You are?” His smile was quick and eager. “Then do not complain when I present the bill for my services.”

She shook her head, an emotion something like disappointment filling her. “I honor my obligations.” It was true, but now it felt like the greatest burden she had ever borne for her country.

* * *

Erianthee could feel the Shadows gather around her, as if portions of the air had become more solid. She could hear everyone in the Great Hall, from the High Table to the scullions bringing in the two spits of broiled Jaloin-geese. This increased sensitivity was at once distracting and reassuring, for she knew she heard through the Spirits of the Outer Air, and that as they grew visible and more vivid, she shared all they swept up in their turbulent flight, but tenuously and with a kind of subtle enervation that inevitably took its toll on her. “Ah. Reonoj, the Ubiquitous,” she said as a Spirit formed the likeness of the hermaphroditic god of the cosmos; she was surprised, for usually her manifestations limited themselves to lesser gods and the stuff of myths. “This will be a great theme to work upon.”

Next to Reonoj another figure was materializing, a lovely young woman in the strange garments from before the Lost Times; Erianthee identified her as Somanee, the great heroine of the Drowned World. She felt herself become slightly disoriented, as if she had been spinning in a circle without getting dizzy but had lost her bearings. This was the most disconcerting aspect of her talent, and tonight it was operating at full force. She made her way very carefully to the seat from which she could focus all her attention on the performance platform. Her sensitivity to sound grew more acute and she felt she could hear the rafters muttering to one another as she began the play.

Reonoj the Ubiquitous occupied center stage, his-her vast gaihups containing all the stars of the night sky against the darkest blue velvet made in Limurj. His-Her face was hidden in a swirl of luminous smoke, and his-her fingers were unusually long, even for a god. He-She held up the Orb of the Cosmos and watched its steady revolution, offering it to the audience with a flourish before he rose into the air, his-her gaihups trailing behind him-her and fanning out to provide a changing background for the other Spirits of the Outer Air. From a place near the ceiling, he-she spread out and signaled the others to begin.

Two women met in front of the fan of Reonoj’s gaihups: Wyrenthee, fascinating, splendid in her archaic clothes, her magnificent features shining, and Somanee, dressed for a later time than Wyrenthee, not quite as staggeringly beautiful but with a presence that made her compelling. These two great heroines met – Wyrenthee from before the Cataclysm, the woman whose prophetic warnings went unheeded, and Somanee, who had founded the Guild of Rectification, and who earned the love of Dorionaj the Incorruptible, Varinet of the League of Korzareon Cities, and whose influence still functioned in the lives of the people of the Great World. The two women moved about, their voices as clear and lovely as the playing of Fahnine viols. Erianthee felt her slight disorientation increase as the Shadows became stronger, pressing her to the limits of her talent.

In the Great Hall the guests were finally silent. Maeshar sprawled in his chair, his eyes glassy as he attempted to follow the story unfolding before him. He strove to concentrate on the remarkable display offered for his entertainment, vaguely certain that he had never seen Erianthee achieve such astonishing results with her Shadowshows before.

“Is this the Great Time?” asked Somanee.

“No,” said Wyrenthee. “Not yet the Great Time, when all we know ends and new forms emerge. But there are great things coming, and not all of them are known, or thought of.” She moved her arm to point to another form taking shape in the corner; the tiny bells on her bracelets rang.

“Whom do you summon, and why do you summon him?” Somanee folded her arms, not in resistance but to show she was reserving her reaction for a short while yet. “What purpose do you wish to serve?”

“I saw the Great World sunk into darkness and death, and I want never again to know such despair as I knew then.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “This is not another Cataclysm, but it will be a disruption beyond what we have seen for generations.”

“But which of the gods and heroes can help, if the dangers are so vast?” Somanee lifted one hand toward Reonoj. “How does the cosmos turn for the Great World, Ubiquity?”

“It is not for me to say what you must do,” came the sonorous answer. “I keep the Cycles, no matter what comes. Choose who will aid you.”

Wyrenthee raised her hand and her voice. “I summon three to deal with the events that loom: Freimach, the great rebuilder of Ymiljesai, whose legendary skills may be called upon again before our work is done.” Freimach strode forward, a saw in one hand and a measure in the other. “Then I ask Ondirpikeon the Cyclical to answer my pleas for his knowledge, for his rulership over tides, meteorology, astronomy, and eclipses may also be needed shortly.” The god obliged by materializing next to Freimach. “And last I call upon Agnith, the Preternatural, and ask her if she will permit us to know where her Treasure lies, for there will be need of it.”

Somanee shook her head. “Agnith will not tell us anything about her Treasure. She never has and never will, for that would deny us the privilege of its revelation. It is for us to discover, not for her to present. If that were the case, we would have had it during the Lost Times, when so many were suffering.”

“Agnith will come,” Wyrenthee said confidently, holding out her hand again, and waiting.

No Spirit of the Outer Air materialized, but a scent of nard filled the Great Hall, sweet and bitter at once.

“She is here,” said Ondirpikeon. “I know her in all her expressions.”

Freimach ducked his head and held up his triangular measure. “I offer this to you and your sister, for you are of the Six Founder Gods, and without you, nothing comes to fruition.”

“Then,” said a vibrant woman’s voice from no specific place in the Great Hall, “prepare for treachery and the suborning of faithful friends. Know that things will vanish while others yet unimagined will appear. Let yourselves be ready to defend that which has never needed defending and to abandon the great fortresses of the past. All things change and all things return to what they have been.” There was a humming in the air as if the strings of a huge and vibrant harp had been struck.

Erianthee drooped and fought off a wave of queasiness that threatened to overcome her.

Kloveon, who had been all but immobilized by the astonishing display on the stage, now pushed himself out of his seat, stumbling a little as he hurried to where Erianthee reclined, calling her name and stroking her honey-colored hair; gradually the figures on the platform faded away, leaving only a sourceless shimmer behind.

“Zlatz,” muttered Erianthee as she struggled to sit up. “Zlatz, zlatz, zlatz, zlatz.”

“Are you all right, Duzna?” Kloveon asked.

For an instant, Erianthee thought she saw something in his eyes unlike anything she had ever found there before, but it was gone before she was sure she had discerned it, and she decided that it had been the aftermath of her Shadowshow. “It was one of those, wasn’t it?”

“One of those?” He held her hands in his. “How do you mean.”

“It wasn’t the Shadowshow I planned to perform. I had something adventuresome in mind. Not this: it took shape on its own and told a story I did not expect. Bontaj!” She pulled her hands free so she could shove herself to her feet. “Would you bring me a glass of wine? I’m feeling strange.”

“Are you ill?” Kloveon was reluctant to move.

“Not ill, just depleted. When the Shadows take over, as they have just done, I am often left . . . frayed.” She made herself laugh a little, glancing in his direction without meeting his gaze with her own. “I hope this doesn’t happen at the Court. I believe my Shadowshow would not be welcome then.”

“No, I should think not.” He respected her and hurried to find a servant to fetch wine for her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erianthee could see Yulko Bihn ease toward one of the corridors leading into the Great Hall, gesturing magically to make his departure unnoticed by almost all the guests. This got her to wondering: where had he been during her Shadowshow? She had not noticed him until now, so it was possible he might not have seen any of the remarkable manifestations. Yet what had he made of it, if he had witnessed the display, especially if he had been magically cloaked and unseen? The second question was more disturbing than the first, and she forced herself not to cringe, as many implications suggested themselves to her.

“Duzna,” said Kloveon as he came back to her, a cup of wine in his hands. “I am told this is a vintage you favor.”

“Thank you,” she said and reached for the cup just as the eerie wail of a questing spell-hound filled the castle.

Erianthee dropped the cup, breaking it and sending bits of glass and sprays of wine in all directions. Men-at-arms who had watched the Shadowshow in a stupor now sprang to attention, their spell-catchers and swords at the ready. A loud buzz of consternation rose among the guests.

Seizing Erianthee’s shoulder, Kloveon exclaimed, “Let’s get you to your apartments. You may not be safe here, and you need time to recover.” He was prepared to lift her into his arms and bear her away.

“I mustn’t flee my own Great Hall,” said Erianthee uncertainly. “What would that imply?”

The spell-hounds continued their ululating cry, indicating they had a magical scent and would pursue it. The guards belatedly shouted orders to accompany a burst of activity. Heijoj Merinex, very elegant in his best gaihups, had risen and was making arcane gestures to immobilize the spells the dogs had detected, though his success was limited. Many of Maeshar’s companions were eager to bolt from the Great Hall, and a few actually managed to do so before the men-at-arms contained them.

“Where’s Ninianee?” Erianthee was a bit steadier on her feet now, and she was able to hold herself properly. She raised her voice to be heard over the spell-hounds. “I need to see her.”

“I don’t know where she is,” said Kloveon. “Shall I send one of your servants to fetch her? I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I need to see Ninianee,” Erianthee repeated.

“All right,” said Kloveon, pulling Erianthee away from the performance platform and toward the place where her senior members of the household sat. “I’ll leave you here for now. Don’t move until I return.” He respected those at the table, speaking loudly enough to have his request carry over the moaning howls. “If you will guard your Duzna? I won’t be long, but she can’t be left alone.” Without waiting for any assurances, he hurried off, hoping to find Ninianee as quickly as possible.

Erianthee was still feeling a bit queasy; she braced her elbows on the table and looked across at Hoftstan Ruch. “You finally got here.” She made a gesture to show her appreciation, hoping he would understand the extent of her gratitude.

“I am very glad I did. I would hate to have missed your Shadowshow, Duzna.” He was being more formally polite than was usual. “I apologize that I was late in arriving.”

Abruptly the spell-hounds fell silent, although the last of their wails echoed down the stone corridors like homesick ghosts.

“Are there problems?” Erianthee asked, familiar with his way of dealing with difficult situations.

“Nothing too demanding, although it is puzzling,” he said. “And the hounds are probably responding to our failed attempts at magic.” He waved his hand in a harried gesture. “I hadn’t planned to use any magic tonight. But that section of outer wall is down again, and spells won’t shore it up in spite of everything we try. I have just come from inspecting the damage, and I have left two of my sons to supervise the watch. We have tried to shore it up for now, but with rubble and blocks, since it will not hold together with spells. It must be stones and mortar or nothing, and that cannot be done until morning.”

Erianthee shook her head. “Not a good sign,” she remarked, noticing that her hands still were unsteady. “Would one of you pour me a cup of wine?”

Burinar, the Vildecaz messenger, was on his feet at once, looking for a clean cup and a large vessel of wine. “Do you prefer red or white, Duzna?”

“I would like either, so long as there is nothing objectionable floating in it,” said Erianthee, more brusquely than usual. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything against you – you are doing me a service. But so long as the wine is good, either color will do.”

“There’s an untapped bottle of Udugan Inkwine,” said Burinar, holding up the vessel in question. “You may like it.”

Ordinarily Erianthee would have steered away from the dark-red, intense wine, but now she said, “Fine. Anything.” She could feel the first shivers that came after such a Shadowshow as she had just provided, and knew that she needed the wine to head off a seizure. Whenever the Shadows got away from her, she became their tool rather than they being hers. There were spells that could delay the seizure a bit or lessen its impact, but wine or strong drink alone could prevent it.