Authors: Carol Berg
Transformation (36 page)
“So what was the argument about?”
“It’s all bound up in a prophecy,” I said, as much to keep the Prince from pestering me with more questions as anything. “For centuries our Seers have predicted that a race of warriors from the north would destroy the world. There were to be two battles. The first would leave the people wailing in terror, and the world reeking of blood and destruction. The Second Battle would be worse, for the warriors from the north would ally themselves with the demons. The only hope would be another warrior—the Warrior of Two Souls—one destined to return his people to greatness. This person would challenge the Gai Kyallet, the Lord of Demons, and in single combat they would determine the fate of the world.”
“And you believe this kind of gibberish?”
“We saw the race of warriors come from the north. And there was no denying the blood or the wailing.”
The Prince halted in the middle of the moonlit path. “You think your prophets foretold our coming—the coming of the Derzhi?”
“So my people believe,” I said wearily, trudging onward, craving the fire and the blankets that awaited us at the guest house. From houses deep in the trees, I glimpsed flickering firelight. Faint voices and laughter wafted by us on the chilly breeze. There were so many of the lights, I had the passing thought that there were more Ezzarians here than Llyr had told me.
The Prince caught up with me and stopped me again, this time holding onto my arm. “But you think something else.” How could he be so annoyingly persistent after the past tiring days?
“Don’t be offended, my lord, but I think the Derzhi were incidental. Prophecy or no, the Khelid are the real danger. They are the conquerors from the north with no souls. We must face them, and the ranks of the Ezzarians are already decimated.” Only three Wardens left, Galadon had said. Only three. Two of them untried students, and the third one Rhys. My friend, who had struggled through his training and come close five times to ending it, had passed his testing at last. I had been one of ten experienced Wardens. How was Rhys able to keep up with the burden? “We thought we had time before the Derzhi became one with the demons. That we would have ample warning. But the Khelid are already merged with them. If there is such a being as the Warrior with Two Souls, we’d best find him.”
“Sounds a confusing mess—two souls. I can’t seem to deal with one properly, according to you. So what of this Galadon? Can he get rid of my curse? He wouldn’t answer when I asked him.”
“He told me it would be very difficult.” Galadon had told me it was impossible, that the damage already done was too severe. Attempting to excise the enchantment would destroy Aleksander, and it might draw the demons’ attention just when we could least afford it. Galadon claimed that his plans—including myself—could not be risked. That had been only one of our disagreements. “But someone will take care of it. You will be healed. It is necessary. Critical. They’ll see it.”
“Damn. You’re not thinking to convince them that I am your Warrior of Two Souls? Is that what this feadnach foolishness is?”
“I don’t know what to think. I can’t think. I’m not sure I want to think.” I pushed his hand away as if it was not a hand that could take my life at any instant. “Galadon has very different ideas than mine.” And budging the stubborn old man seemed impossible.
“Well, whatever you’re thinking, keep me out of it, Ezzarian. I am not here to prance around, pretending I believe in any barbarian prophecies. I might as likely believe in the warrior on the tapestries the woman just showed me—a warrior with wings fighting a monster with only a knife and a looking glass. I will deal with the Khelid the moment I can hold a sword again.”
“It seems foolish, doesn’t it?” I tried to put it all out of mind. “Whatever comes, please don’t mention any of this to the Queen in the morning. Nothing of Galadon or Catrin. If anyone finds out I’m here and they’ve spoken to me, their lives will be very hard. It is a violation of their law.”
Aleksander shook his head. “And you call the Derzhi cruel! I don’t understand this kind of punishment. Invisibility. Wouldn’t a good beating or a nice hanging suffice?”
“Trade places with me for a day, my lord, and tell me which beating is a good one and which hanging is nice.”
“I stand by my point.”
“You must understand. Ezzarians spend their lives battling demons. They have to make sure that there is no possible channel through which a demon may reach them. No evil. No impurity. Our history tells us of horrors that can result when a demon follows a path of corruption back to those who are fighting it. I suppose we took it too far. Perhaps our attempt to protect ourselves has coiled about on its own tail and devours us. I don’t know anymore.”
We walked in silence until we broke through the edge of the trees. Though the valley lay frosted and still in the moonlight, spring was in the air, a moist earthiness beyond the night’s chill that soothed the soul with the promise of warmth and growing. I inhaled deeply.
“Who is this old man, Seyonne? I wouldn’t have thought anyone could set you so at odds with yourself.”
I laughed. “Haven’t you guessed it? He was my likai.” At the very moment I said the word, Aleksander’s boot broke through an ice-crusted puddle. He slipped and cracked a knee on a sharp rock. “Damnation!” he said, sitting down hard and pressing a gloved hand over his bleeding knee.
Whether it was the sudden injury, the thought of Dmitri, or the combination of the two, in one stomach-wrenching instant I felt every shred of warmth sucked out of my body.
“Blessed Athos,” said Aleksander, clamping his fists to his temples. “Not again.” He struggled to his feet and sucked in a harsh breath.
I grabbed his arm and pulled. “Hurry. Come back to the trees.” I suppose I held some faint hope that the enchantments woven about the edge of the woods might forestall the demon transformation, but as I helped the limping Aleksander across the barrier, it seemed I only made things worse. His body jerked in tortured spasm, and he cried out. The searing heat that poured off him forced me to drop his arm and fall back. He bent double and sank to his knees, groaning in mortal anguish, his torso stretching into impossible shapes, while his human aspect wavered and faded with agonizing swiftness.
“My lord, you are in control,” I said, but the stray beam of moonlight illuminating his terror-filled eyes told me otherwise. No more than three minutes passed, and I stood facing a maddened shengar, jaws gaping wide as it roared its fury and pain. One paw was bloody, and the limping beast began to circle around behind me. Smoothly, slowly, I turned with it. “My lord, take hold of my voice. Keep the door open. Your pain will ease.”
The huge cat screamed again in the harsh, bone-chilling cry of a tortured woman, so much more fearful than the throatier roar of larger beasts. I stood absolutely immobile, allowing the restless beast to examine me. I kept talking, but words seemed to make him angrier, so I fell silent, whispering my chant under my breath. “Stay calm, Aleksander. You are stronger than the beast. It is only the pain. The surprise. The crossing of an unholy enchantment with the weaving of light. I should have known. I’m sorry.”
He did not attack. Rather, after a while, he loped off into the dark woodland. I sagged limp against the trunk of a towering fir, praying there were no Ezzarians wandering the forest that night. A shifting wind moved the trees, almost blinding me with the beams of the full moon. Distant laughter floated on the breeze along with wood smoke ... oh, breath of Verdonne ... of course there were Ezzarians out. It was the first full moon of spring—the birth of a new season. The night Ezzarian families built fires outside and told stories until dawn. A night of merriment and excitement for children allowed to stay up late. A night of wonder and companionship. Grabbing a thick branch broken from the fir, I took out after Aleksander, wondering if, after sixteen years, my legs remembered how to run.
I heard him crashing through the brush ahead of me. I leaped fallen trees and ducked under limbs and paid no heed to scrub and branches that tore at my clothes. Occasionally I caught sight of the dark blur leaping with ease over obstacles I had to climb. But soon I smelled wood smoke, and I could no longer hear his passing. Perhaps it was only my terror, but I believed I heard the soft snarl of wicked anticipation as he slipped nearer the merry fire just ahead. I circled wide and ran toward the fire. “Wildcat!” I screamed. “Shengar! Take the children and get inside!”
I didn’t stop to explain to the five or six yelling adults who leaped from the ground and snatched up whimpering children. I just dipped my branch in their fire, prayed it to catch quickly, and kept my ears focused on the snarl of fury to my left. He was moving. I threw down my still-unlit stick and picked up one the Ezzarians had left poking into the fire to stir the coals. It was too thin and would burn down quickly as I ran, but I couldn’t wait. Aleksander was running. As I took after him, I heard a shocked voice from behind me. “Verdonne’s mercy. Seyonne?”
The shengar had found a game trail. A clearer path, easier to run. But it meant he was faster. Shengars were not like the kayeets of the desert who were the fastest beasts known in the world, fleeter than the graceful dune-runners and sand-deer who were their prey. But Aleksander was fast enough that I soon had a stitch in my side and heard the echo of Galadon’s insults from my youth. “Are you glued to the path? How in Verdonne’s name will you ever outrun a demon if you have stone feet?”
I cleared my mind and commanded the blood to service my legs and my side and my lungs, and soon I could see him again ... and at least three fires in the trees. I bellowed with all the breath I could muster, “Hear me, Ezzarians,” as if they all could hear my desire. “Shengar! Take shelter!” I ran to each fire and made sure they heard, then took back to the game trail. Which way? I had to stop and silence my breathing so I could hear, desperately wishing for the increased acuity melydda had once provided me. Fool! I was not helpless. I still had senses that would be of use. Quickly I passed the back of my hand before my eyes and shifted into the realm of my extra senses. All I needed was to see enchantment.
When I looked again, the trees of that forest were woven with silver threads, as if the goddess of the moon had dropped her nets to catch what magical birds might nest there. I had forgotten how beautiful were the weavings, and my damaged sight could catch only the merest hint of them, like looking at a rainbow through a smoked glass. But I had no time to savor it. Ahead of me the roiling purple and green ugliness of the demon enchantment was disappearing over a rise, and I took off through the trees, trying to keep my blazing brand from starting any other fires.
I heard screams and ran faster yet, soon arriving at a rocky grotto where two men and three women had plastered themselves against the stone walls, pressing five or six children behind them. The shengar crouched low, bawling at them across the clearing, shy of the fire that burned innocently to its right. But the fire wasn’t big enough, and he was beginning to edge around it to get at the terrified people. “Here!” I said, stepping in between the shengar and the people, holding my pitiful torch so that two fires blocked its path. “You don’t want to do this. Listen to my voice. Leave these good people alone.” He screamed at me with fangs bared and muscles taut, ready to spring, and the children behind me wailed in shrill terror. “Keep them quiet and still,” I said over my shoulder. I waved my burning branch, and the cat shied backward slightly. “Think, Zander. You don’t want to do this.” One of the men got the idea and stepped to the campfire to grab a stick of his own. Aleksander bawled harshly at the man, and I was afraid he was going to leap the small fire and take the man before he could get his branch burning well enough. “Begone from here,” I said, waving the torch at Aleksander again. “Stay in control.”
The cat backed away a little more, and I stepped toward it, waving the branch until it slunk into the trees and disappeared. Bending over to ease the cramps in my legs, I caught a glimpse of the man standing over the fire. “Garen,” I blurted out. He was the miller’s son from my home village, a close friend who perennially won any contest of strength. After a year in the world as a Searcher, he’d come home to take over the mill when his father died ... about two days before the Derzhi invasion.
He stared squinting across the fire. “Thank—” His eyes widened and glazed out of focus. “Come,” he said, waving to the others, “let’s get the children inside.” I had disappeared from his sight as surely as if my body had become transparent. I turned and ran after the cat with the weight of lead in my gut.
The next group of storytellers had already set a ring of fire about themselves, and the next, and soon I began to find the fires deserted. Perhaps the word had spread. About the time I decided I couldn’t run another step, I heard a triumphant scream up a small rise just ahead of me. My feet sped forward on their own, and I had to grab a tree to stop myself running right into a place I didn’t want to be. Aleksander had found himself a yearling buck, and he lay in the moonlit glade happily gnawing on its belly. His muzzle and the snow were bright with blood.
I sank down by the tree. My chest was on fire. My legs cramped into knots that made me want to howl. If the shengar decided that a wretched slave was a better meal than the fallen buck, I could not have moved one handspan to prevent him. Galadon’s surety that I could regain my strength and stamina with only a few weeks of decent food and physical training seemed only slightly less laughable than his surety that submitting to the five days of Warden’s testing would restore my power.
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