Kitabı oku: «Shadows of Destiny», sayfa 2

“Is there anything else?” the ruler asked.

“No, my lord.”

“Then go,” the ruler said. “Tend to your numbers and your geometries. And pray that you never stand on a field where straight lines bend and twice two is not four.”

He did not read my mind, Lutte thought as he bowed and turned to leave. His face had betrayed his skepticism, and his ruler knew of his reputation. It was nothing more.

What a pity, Ardred thought as Lutte left. What a pity that such a talented young mind should lack the most essential of all knowledge: the numbering of the gods, the geometry of the soul.

Lutte was a good soldier, but poor counsel. What he lacked, Ardred most needed. For no man can make war upon his brother with lightness of heart, whatever their past. Once, Ardred had laid siege to Annuvil. Now Annuvil would come to lay siege to Ardred.

Lutte thought he knew what danger lay when two men loved a woman, for such had been his crime. But he knew nothing at all.

Ardred must kill his brother. The world could not be stitched back together until Annuvil was dead. Only then would the glory and true power return.

And all this for the love of a single woman.

Theriel.

Chapter Three

The rustle began at the edges of the Bozandar camp. Muted gasps and movements filtered through the camp as if through the muscles and sinew of a waking giant, slowly willing it into motion. Tuzza put down his pen and emerged from his tent, his senses alert for any hint of danger or malice. He felt none, and slowly made his way through the gathering throng of soldiers at the eastern fence.

“It cannot be!” one man whispered.

“They cannot live so far south!” another added.

“My eyes deceive me, for they bend to her!”

Tuzza shouldered his way through until he could see for himself what had caused such a stir. And his mouth dropped open.

There stood Lady Tess, a semicircle of snow wolves arrayed behind her, silent yet alert, their eyes fixed on her as if she were their pack leader. One of them, however, stood beside her, golden eyes searching among the soldiers until at last they fixed on Tuzza. A shiver ran through him as he made eye contact with the beast, a recognition of something preternatural and unexplainable.

So it was true.

Tuzza instinctively lowered himself to one knee and bowed. He had no need to speak, for his men were still soldiers, whatever their current lot. They knelt with him.

“Rise, Topmark Tuzza,” the woman said, her voice quiet but firm. She spread her hands behind her, indicating the wolves. Then the fingers of one hand returned to rest on the head of the snow-white beast beside her. “Rise and make way for your Lady and her court.”

“Fall in!” Tuzza commanded.

Some, those whom fortune had placed at the rear of the battles and who had not needed her healing touch, grumbled. But they were the fewer, and the looks of their comrades shamed them into obedience.

“Dress ranks!” Tuzza said.

Even in those who grumbled, the first act of obedience had rekindled the training and drill that countless hours had transformed into automatic responses. The men adjusted their spacing, and soon stood in lines so straight that they might have been set down by a surveyor.

Tuzza faced Lady Tess. “My men stand ready, m’lady. We are at your service.”

“Very well,” Tess said, now striding toward them as if she were gliding on air, the wolves in her train.

She marched to the front of the formation, then turned to face them. Once again the wolves took up their places behind and at her side. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong, a bell ringing in the soul itself.

“I am she who was foretold,” Tess said. While she loathed the words and what they meant, she knew their truth. She could not hide from herself any longer. “Believe, or disbelieve. But disbelief will be your doom, for you will disbelieve that which you now see for yourselves. Topmark Tuzza stands at my service. Where stand you?”

For long moments, the host stood frozen. Tuzza stepped forward and ranged himself beside the lady. Now, perhaps, he could quell the unrest in his ranks and refashion from them an army. He spoke quietly, yet pitching his voice to reach even the most distant of ears among his men. “The days we learned about as children, the days we thought were mere tales fashioned for our amusement, have arrived. While we may have to fight our brethren, our purpose is not to bring about the fall of Bozandar, but her salvation. For the Enemy we fight would bring the death of all.

“Stand with me, my men, for the sake of your families, for the sake of your children yet unborn. For if we do not stand now, we shall face the fate of the Firstborn, and never shall our names be heard again.”

He could see his men wavering, uncertain in their loyalties. Outside the walls of the compound, however, the Anari guards bent their knees and made signs of fealty toward the Lady Tess. Then the wolves began to keen, a sound that made the hair on the back of a man’s neck rise, that sent a tingle running along even the bravest spine.

With a simple movement of her hand, the lady silenced the wolves, a sight so shocking that many doubtful hearts were swayed.

“Brave men of Bozandar,” she said, “declare yourselves now, for your entire future is writ in this moment.”

A ripple of movement ran through the ranks, and when stillness again returned, every soldier had knelt.

The lady opened her arms and turned her face heavenward. To those with eyes to see, she almost seemed to glow a pale blue, an aura that enveloped the wolves at her feet. Then snow began to fall, gently, sparkling in the rising dawn light, looking almost like blood. Above, gray clouds churned, marked red here and there as the sun rose above the mountains.

“He brings the snow,” the lady said. “He seeks to destroy you with cold and hunger. He would murder your brothers and leave barren the wombs of your sisters. He would strike from the fabric of time your very existence. I will not let this be.”

Reaching up with one hand, she appeared to grasp something in the air and twist it. A sudden wind sprang up, strong enough to make men lean. As it blew, it drove the clouds away, clearing the sky until it was the perfect blue of dawn.

The lady lowered her arm and looked at all the men kneeling before her. “Rise,” she said. “You have chosen wisely this day. I will arrange better accommodations for you as swiftly as I can. May Elanor bless you and your families.”

Then she turned and exited the compound, the wolves a protective phalanx around her.

In the Bozandari compound, the murmuring and even arguments continued throughout the day. Some refused to believe what they had seen. The vast majority, however, believed their own senses, and eventually argued the dissenters into silence.

The strongest voices among them were the voices who had seen Tess on the battlefield, those who had seen or experienced her healing and that of her sisters.

Such magicks had long vanished from the world, and had long been thought to be silly tales. Now those who had seen with their own eyes no longer could deny the truth of the stories.

Tuzza chose to remain mostly out of sight this day, while the discussions raged outside his tent. His men had elected to offer fealty to the lady, and he never doubted that they would keep that oath. Honor was held in the highest esteem by the Bozandari army, and these men would not go back on their words. Yet still they might argue about what they had seen and what it meant.

Toward evening, as the sky reddened again to the west and the camp began to settle for another cold night, Archer Blackcloak, he who was Annuvil, came to the prison camp to speak with Tuzza.

The first thing Tuzza noted was that Master Archer, as he preferred to be called, seemed to have grown somehow since last they spoke. It was as if in shouldering the burdens left to him by his heritage, as if in announcing his true identity, Archer had grown physically as well as figuratively. The lines of care and suffering still carved his face deeply, but they only enhanced the sense of power about him.

Tuzza offered him wine, and the two of them sat at the wooden camp table, the map of the Bozandari world between them.

“I heard,” Archer said, “that the lady paid you a visit early this morning.”

“Aye, she did. With eight white wolves.”

Archer’s mouth lifted in a smile. “That must have commanded attention.”

“I am not certain what commanded the most attention—the wolves or when she stopped the snow and drove away the clouds.” Tuzza, who had believed himself to be the most unsurprisable of men, nevertheless sounded awed as he spoke of the lady banishing the storm.

Archer nodded and sipped his wine. “She is full of surprises, that one. Nor does she yet know all she can do.”

“A wild talent?”

“At times. For some reason, the gods deprived her of all memory when they brought her to me and my friends. Whatever she may have known before, all is lost. She knows only what she learns with each passing day.”

“Then she has learned a great deal.”

Archer nodded. “Quite a bit in such a short time.”

“I hear the Anari guards referring to her as the Weaver. Do they mean the one foretold?”

There was a glint in Archer’s eye. “What think you, Tuzza? Did she reach out and cast away a storm?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.” He looked down into his wine and breathed, “The Weaver. I never thought to see such a thing.”

“Few of us did. I do not mind saying that living in the times foretold by prophecy will bring little joy to most of us.”

“No. These will be hard times.”

“The hardest. We will all be sorely tested. Sorely indeed.” He caught Tuzza’s gaze and held it. “All we will have, brother, is trust in one another. I cannot tell you how important that will be.”

“You call me brother?”

“Aye, for you are about to share my burden. And no joyous road it will be.”

“I am honored, my lord.”

“Speak to me of honor when we have passed through this shadow and can clasp hands on the other side.” Archer shook his head. “I have known for centuries that this time approached, yet I am no more ready to face it than I ever was. And it grieves me that others must share my burden, for if I had chosen to act differently long ago, this would never have come about.”

“And I might never have been born and never have seen my children grow to adulthood.”

Archer smiled faintly. “You are very positive.”

“One must be positive to lead an army.”

“Aye, it is so.”

They sat quietly together for a while, sipping their wine, a silent camaraderie growing between them.

The first to break the silence was Archer. “Do you trust your men?”

“Aye. We regard honor very highly.”

Archer nodded, then leaned closer. “Watch them nonetheless, brother. For he has ways of taking over the minds of men. You have heard of the hives?”

“Aye, but I have never met one.”

“You will, before this is done. He draws men into his sway, then bends their will to his. He can even occupy one of them if he wishes. It is as if they have only a single mind, and it is strange to see how they work in concert. That is how he controls his armies.”

Tuzza looked appalled and took a deep draft of his wine. “That will worry me.”

“It should. Once he takes them over, they even lose their fear of mortality. It is unforgivable that he uses them thus, but he does and you must be prepared for it. And you must ever be wary that he might take control of some of your soldiers. For he will certainly try.”

“How can I guard against it?”

“I know of no way to stop it. But when it happens…Ilduin blood judges harshly. Be wary and tell your men to be wary. And know this. While your men may hesitate at the thought of battle with other Bozandari, those whom he holds will not hesitate to cut your men down like chaff.”

After a few moments of clearly pained thought, Tuzza refilled their wine goblets. “Then tonight, my lord brother, we must enjoy the fruits of the earth and the gifts of the gods, for we cannot know when our hour will come.”

Archer raised his goblet in toast and took a deep drink. “We need information about what is happening to the north of Bozandar. Since the rebellion, your armies have made it all but impossible to send scouts in that direction. If there is any way you can get news, I will be grateful. It is never wise to march blind to meet an enemy.”

Tuzza nodded. “I will find a way.”

“I’m sure by now an army marches to your rescue. Ponder on this, Tuzza, for I would not engage them in battle and waste lives needlessly. We must find a way to prevent the fight and convince them to join us.”

“That will be even harder than today was.”

“Aye. I have some notion of the stiff spines of the Bozandar army. And whether you believe it or not, the Anari are every bit as stiff-spined. I would avoid the bloodshed if we can. We are going to need every able man to fight the evil that comes.”

Tuzza’s mouth framed a wry smile. “And apparently we will need some Ilduin as well.”

“Aye, for he has corrupted at least two that we know of, and there may be more.”

“Fire must be fought with fire.”

“Sad to say. I would not corrupt these women in any way, had I the choice.”

Tuzza sighed. “I think they will not be corrupted, my lord. They will see what they should not see, and perhaps do things they will regret, but they will understand why the choices were forced upon them, as any good soldier does.”

“I hope you are right. The three who are with us seem somehow steeped in unassailable purity. I fear it will not last.”

“War carries a heavy toll. But perhaps Lady Tess can travel with me to meet the advancing army. If she could do for them what she did for us today, my job of persuasion would be ever so much easier.”

Archer lifted a brow. “You will not ride alone regardless, Tuzza. For I will not have you called traitor and carried away in shackles. You are no traitor, and we need you.”

“Treason is in the eye of the beholder, Master Archer. My emperor will not see my actions as anything other.”

“Then we need to enlighten him as well.”

Tuzza almost laughed. “He is not an easy man to persuade.”

“Perhaps he has never been swayed before by an Ilduin.”

“Certainly not by the Weaver.”

Archer’s expression grew grave. “She must be guarded at all costs, Tuzza. Ardred will stop at nothing to claim her. The mere fact that prophecy predicted her appearance is no guarantee of safety. The days and weeks to come hold no guarantees. At this point, the future is no longer writ, even for the most gifted of prophets.”

Tuzza’s answering nod was grim. “I understand, my lord.”

“Tomorrow I would take you into Anahar with me to meet my lieutenant Ratha. It is time for us to forge bonds between us, and we must forge them like the finest steel if we are to withstand the onslaught to come.”

“It will be no easy task.”

“No part of this task will be easy. The faint of heart may as well flee right now.”

“There are no faint hearts in this camp, my lord.”

“Nor in mine. But we will come across them, just as we will come across enemies stronger than you now imagine.”

“I have seen what the lady can do, Lord Annuvil. Trust me, I can imagine.”

Chapter Four

We should listen in, Cilla thought, an impish smile on her dark features as she met Tess’s eyes.

Without a doubt, Tess agreed, meeting her gaze. She was still sometimes surprised at the ease with which she and her Ilduin sisters could touch each other’s minds, and remembered the first time she had noticed this ability, as Sara and Tom had demonstrated their love for each other.

Ahem! Cilla and Tess immediately looked to Sara’s window, where Sara was glaring back at them with a mock stern expression. Can a girl have a bit of privacy, please?

Cilla put a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh, mirth dancing in her eyes. But sister, you are the only hope we have!

Get your own man, Sara thought with a toss of her head, followed by a wink.

I’m trying, Cilla thought. I’m trying.

Tess laughed aloud and drew Cilla aside. “Come, sister. Let us walk together and leave sweet Sara to enjoy her new marriage.”

“Of course,” Cilla said. “’Twas only sport.”

“And pleasant sport at that,” Tess said, her smile fading. “But as our men have gone to discuss things manly, perhaps we should take the opportunity to advance our own knowledge.”

They walked toward the temple slowly, as if reluctant to end the celebratory mood and resume the hard work that lay before them. Even Tess’s visit to the Bozandari camp had seemed almost a royal visit, born of a dream. The snow wolves had slipped away into the hills around Anahar, and now, even with Cilla beside her, she felt very alone as she walked to face the gods.

“Have you any news of Ratha?” Tess asked.

“He has withdrawn within himself,” Cilla said, shaking her head. “I try to tell him it was not his fault that Giri fell, that it is not wise to grieve alone, but he will hear none of it.”

“Do Anari believe in life after death?” Tess asked. For all the time she had spent in the temple at Anahar, she knew little of their religion.

“Yes,” Cilla said. “Of a sort. Giri is beyond the veil now, in the garden of the gods, but his life there—if life it be—is nothing like life here. Those who pass beyond the veil become all and nothing, united yet unique. All of those beyond the veil can feel one another’s thoughts as we Ilduin can, if thoughts they have at all.”

Tess nodded, ghosts of memories flitting through her mind, wispy and unapproachable.

“You do not remember what your people believe,” Cilla said.

“No,” Tess replied. “Although my heart tells me it was not far different from what you have said.”

Cilla smiled. “Why did you ask?”

“We grieve not for those who have passed,” Tess said. “Their pain has ended, their struggles complete. We ought not to be sad on their account, for the life they have now—whatever it may be—is better than any they have known. No, we grieve for ourselves, for the holes that are left in our own lives by the passing of those whom we loved.”

“This we are taught as well,” Cilla said. “It is as if a piece of flesh has been cut from one’s arm. We do not feel the pain of the flesh which is gone. We feel the pain from the flesh that remains, raw and open and torn. Until the body can repair it, the pain remains. But it is never fully repaired, for the scar we build is not the same as the flesh it replaces.”

“Exactly,” Tess said, squeezing her sister’s hand.

“You are saying that Ratha needs time to build a scar over the hole that Giri’s death has left.”

Tess nodded. “And until he can do that, dear sister, he will be too pained to feel your love for him. Or his for you.”

“Give me not false hope,” Cilla said sharply. Then, after a moment. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to scold you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Tess said. “And I am not your lady, but your sister. I must have someone in my life who pays me no homage, but simply shares with me this journey of life.”

Cilla nodded. “Yes, sister.”

“And I give you no false hope,” Tess said. “Trust not in what you see on Ratha’s face just now, nor hear in his words. Ratha cannot look upon you, nor hear you, nor speak to you. Only his grief sees you, hears you, and responds. Grief cannot love. But Ratha can.”

Tess sighed and looked down at the colorful, rainbow-hued cobbles beneath their feet, trying desperately to recall the song that the stones of Anahar had sung when they had summoned the Anari. That song had seemed to open doors within her, to fill her with a sense of awe that had been good, unlike much of the awe she had felt since awaking with no memory.

“Grief,” she said, “is not a gentle thing, Cilla. It claws at us like a ravening beast, and is loathe to release us from its grip. Worse, we find it hard to accept that someone we love is lost to us for the rest of our days. ’Twould be easier for Ratha had Giri left on a long journey with no intent to return. For at least then he would have known his brother still existed somewhere within this world, and that eventually he might hear Giri’s voice again in this lifetime. He has no such hope now. But eventually he will find acceptance, and with acceptance he will return to you.”

Cilla squeezed Tess’s hand. “I pray that you are right, sister. For my heart both leaps and aches every time I see him. Long did I gaze upon him in my childhood, when I hid among the rocks and watched him play. Longer, it seems, was he lost to me after he was taken away into slavery. Then he returned, and it felt as if I had found the missing part of my own soul. And now…”

“Now he is gone again,” Tess said. “For a time. But only for a time, sister. You have been patient these many years. Let not patience fail you now.”

“Listen to you two! Gloom and sorrow!”

Tess and Cilla turned to see Sara, running to catch up with them. Her face shone with the glow of a new bride.

“And why aren’t you in your room with your husband?” Tess asked.

Sara giggled. “Men, it seems, lack…stamina.”

Cilla held up a finger. “You asked for privacy, if I recall? Now you will tell us what we could have heard for ourselves?”

Sara shook her head. “No. I have said all that I will. But a woman cannot live only in her husband’s arms. Not this woman, at least. I need time with my sisters as well. So scold me not for my presence, nor if I should leave you. Tom will not sleep all day, and I will be there when he awakens.”

“I’m quite sure you will,” Tess said, laughing. She turned to Cilla. “Come, let us hurry to the temple, while he sleeps, lest Sara’s…needs…call her away before she can learn anything.”

“Somehow,” Cilla said, “I think she is learning quite a lot. Just not of Ilduin lore.”

Sara smiled. “With sisters such as you, a bride needs no groomsmother. Perhaps the gods will be more delicate.”

“That,” Tess said, sighing, “would truly surprise.” And deep within her, she felt the stirring of anger, anger that her sister’s joy must be overshadowed, anger that they all grieved so much, not only for the past, but for the future as well.

No one, she thought as her steps carried her closer to the temple, should have to grieve for that which had not yet passed. But that sorrow, it seemed, was the fate of the Ilduin.

“The young prophet emerges,” Erkiah said with a smile as Tom entered his chamber. “Although now that you are wed, I suppose that ‘young’ no longer applies. Pray, Tom, tell me why you lie not in the arms of your bride?”

Tom blushed behind the leathern mask that covered his eyes, leaving only slits for him to see through. Ever since Tess had healed him from fatal wounds received in a Bozandari ambush along the road to Anahar, his irises had grown so pale that he could no longer bear bright light. The mask Tess had thought to make for him had saved him from being virtually blind. “I pretended to sleep. I love her like a fish loves the river, yet we have been so busy these past days in preparation for the wedding…and I found myself missing my studies.”

Erkiah waved a hand at his young charge. “Apologize not, my friend, neither to me nor to her. Apparently she waited only minutes after your ruse before scurrying off to meet her sisters at the temple and continue her own work. In other times, lovers might pale at such a thought. But you both know there is much to be done and little time in which to do it. The shame is only that you could not speak openly of it, one to the other.”

“I fear I am not yet accustomed to marriage,” Tom said. “Nor is Sara, I suppose.”

“I pray that you will have time to grow into it,” Erkiah said, sadness on his features. “For all that has happened, the greater burden lies before us.”

“And Lord Archer’s strength will fail,” Tom said.

Erkiah nodded. “Sadly, yes. Thus it is foretold. It weighs upon us to ascertain how, and when, and stand ready to fortify him.”

“Show me those prophecies, please,” Tom said, walking to the shelves on which Erkiah’s scrolls lay. “Nothing we have learned together will matter if in this we err.”

“You speak truth,” Erkiah said. “If my memory fails me not, that text is on the second shelf, third scroll from the right.”

“If ever your memory fails you,” Tom said, reaching for the vellum, “the gods themselves will quake with fear.”

“You do me too much credit,” Erkiah said, laughing. “I am but a man, and like any other I am prone to error.”

“But not in matters of consequence.” Tom met his eyes, then unrolled the top of the scroll. “Eshkaron Treysahrans. Your memory does not fail.”

Erkiah nodded and watched as Tom stretched the scroll over the table and weighted the corners with candlesticks.

He shuddered and spoke. “I would that I had forgotten. This is a text I have not read since I was a young man. It frightened me so that never again have I touched it, save to pack it for my journey here, and unpack it upon my arrival.”

Tom studied him gravely. This was not the Erkiah he had come to know, eagerly seeking knowledge as a hungry man at morning. “I would ask why it frightened you, but I know your answer already. You will tell me to read it, for then I will know.”

“That is true,” Erkiah said, “though hardly prophecy.”

“Of course it was not prophecy,” Tom replied, smiling. “It is simply what you always say.”

“Prophecy,” Erkiah said, “would be to tell me why I say those same words each time.”

Tom shook his head. “No, it takes no prophet to see this. If I simply commit to memory all that you say, I can never be more than your pale image in the mirror of time. Your wish is that I will be greater than that, and thus you compel me to read for myself and challenge you.”

Erkiah smiled weakly. “I would that we had met in happier times, my son. Were it such, we might spar thus hour upon hour and take joy in the sparring. Alas, we have no such luxury.”

“We will,” Tom said firmly. “We will.”

The Eshkaron Treysahrans was the most difficult of the prophetic writings, but Tom slogged through it with a determination that Erkiah found both admirable and almost frightening. While the name of its author had been lost in the sands of time, Erkiah considered it to be among the oldest of the prophecies, and the one least changed by the pens of the intervening scribes, in large part because few had chosen to transcribe it. His copy might be the only one still in existence. If not, he doubted there were even a half-dozen others.

The title of the work—The Death of the Gods—gave little clue as to its meaning. Unlike the titles of most prophecies, this seemed to have been chosen by the original author, for reasons that had little to do with illuminating the text itself. In fact, the author had gone to great lengths to avoid precisely that sort of illumination.

The text was divided into three sections. The first was a series of riddles without either answers or, it had seemed to Erkiah, any connecting subject line. The second part was a fragmentary chronology, beginning with “the death of the last of the First” and ending with “the birth of the first of the Last,” without any context to identify what beings, or even what kind of beings, were referenced. The few scholars who had appended notes to this section had served only to muddle the issue, with interpretations ranging from the gods themselves to the Firstborn to the Ilduin and even, among the last scholars to attempt, to the Bozandari nobility.

It was the third section—Aneshtreah, or “Admonitions”—which had struck fear in Erkiah those many years ago. In the style of a stern master writing to a recalcitrant young student, it was a series of warnings, each more dire than the last. Its central message was one about trust, or, more aptly, suspicion. It began:

Trust not your mother.

In pain has she born you, in hardship sustained you,

And great her resentment, though hidden it may be.

Trust not your father,

For first when he spawned you was last as he fed you,

And greater his wrath at the end of the day.

And so it continued, admonishing the reader to trust neither man nor beast, friend nor foe, neither wife nor children, neither master nor servant, neither god nor priest. The cold dissection of each relationship left no room for honor, commitment or even love. The final stanza banished all hope:

Trust not the Shadow,

For shadow must fail in the presence of light,

The Dark One must yield to the Fair in the fight.

Trust not the Light,

A dagger he wields for the heart entombed,

While cruelty unbounded his soul attuned.

“By the gods,” Tom whispered as he sat back from the scroll. His face was ashen. “It cannot be.”

Erkiah nodded. “So I thought as well, my friend. And yet, thus it is written.”

“Do I read this right?” Tom asked. “Lord Archer is the Shadow, and the Enemy the Light?”

“The legends say that Ardred was the fairer of the brothers,” Erkiah said. “And surely it does not surprise you that Archer would be called the shadow. From his hair to his visage to the way he has slipped through this world almost unseen for all of these years.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “But if that is true, then Archer will fail us.”

Erkiah simply nodded.

Tom’s face fell as he completed the thought. “And our future rests in the hands of Ardred.”