Magic in Ithkar 3 Read online

  Why this torture? Why bestow that which must ever lie maimed, stillborn?

  The master crafter brought herself firmly under control. Very well. Devotion supposedly brought aid in need, and need of heart equaled that of body, but long years of pointless hope had taught her the lie of that claim.

  Her face had become a hard mask.

  She had not yielded to the ultimate cowardice of disbelief despite that. The Mother was real, right enough. She existed, but not as the benevolent power she chose to seem for some unfathomable reason of her own. She was crueler, more callous, than the vilest force she was supposed to oppose, monstrous in the falsehood she foisted upon those who truly loved and tried to serve her.

  Roma would not feed that warped vanity again. She would not in word or deed attempt to lead anyone else into her awareness or her resolution even if she had to play the hypocrite to avoid doing so, for she would not force such pain on another sentient being, but she herself would no longer live by a covenant whose precepts she alone kept.

  Roma Ní Jespar could no more do battle against her than could any other mortal thing, but compliance, willing cooperation, that she could and had vowed to refuse utterly, even to denying three good men already because she would not play the role assigned to woman in that one’s plan for the continuation of life. If her womb were filled by some act of force, so be it, but it would be a tyrant’s deed. She would give the Mother no conscious help, in this matter or in any other.

  Her eyes were like wizard’s fire, cold and dangerous.

  There was more she could do, a way in which she might at last achieve her desire whether these supposedly beneficent divinities chose to help her or nay.

  The priests of more than one belief came to Ithkar Fair, and at least one of the alien gods they served was reputed to be quick in his response to his worshipers’ call.

  Thotharn was rumored to oppose both the Mother and the Three Lordly Ones, but that was no longer her concern. If they valued her worship or cared for her at all, they should have kept faith with her. When a merchant could not or would not supply what was required, one sought out the next stall whether the proprietor be an unfriend to the first or nay. So would she do now.

  The price for going to this new god was reputed to be very high, but she knew that and consented to pay it. She had come to Ithkar this year with the firm intention of seeking out Thotharn’s priest, and seek him she would, as soon as her duties here gave her the leisure to do so.

  Night had fallen before Roma was able to leave her kin, ostensibly to walk the fair a little after this very busy day. Her heart was hammering wildly, and there was an almost hectic flush on her cheeks, but she held her head high, and her step was resolute.

  She made her way as directly as she could without drawing attention to herself to the outer section of the fair, where a priest of Thotharn had set his dark, rich pavilion.

  She did not pause even when she came within sight of it but walked straight to its entrance.

  There, the woman stopped and gazed at that which was emblazoned upon it, a mask of exquisite beauty and workmanship, yet loathsome all the same to everything within her.

  She steeled herself. She had known it would be thus. This was no light move that she contemplated..

  She felt it then, or her birthright did and clamored warning of the influence, a drawing, a commanding to enter at once, before her purpose weakened.

  Roma Ní Jespar stiffened and stepped back several paces in anger.

  That was a mistake, a very bad mistake. Compulsion, attempted compulsion, was not the way to gain aught from her.

  She straightened again. Thotharn’s priest had erred, but it was not him with whom she intended to deal.

  The master crafter reeled, almost went to her knees.

  The blow did not come from the pavilion but from within her own self, a blinding flash of foreknowledge so sharp and stark and so absolute in its certainty as to well nigh numb her merely finite human mind.

  If she went into that place, aye, she would succeed with her tunes, find fame for herself the like of which she had never even dreamed, but there would be no new songs. Never again would her soul stir with new life or glory with the strange rapture of creation.

  Never again would her hands give form to tiny bards or to images that could draw a bereaved mother’s tears at first and later give comfort to her heart. The birthright would still delve, her hands still mold and paint, but only darkness, corruption, would come from her, bribery and ill to others.

  Roma stood poised but a breath’s space; then she fled, or would have fled had pride and the will that still ruled her not held her pace to just under a run. Her soul she could risk or give, but not this other.

  She slowed a little once she had left the outer section and again found herself within the main body of the fair, in the busy, lively middle section. She turned her face toward the temple and the place near it allotted to her clan.

  The great building stood darkly against the starlit sky, and she glared balefully at it and at the heavens towering above it.

  “Ye won this time,” she muttered, savagely because of the fear and the sense of relief still on her.

  The realization of what she had escaped came full upon her again, and with it the need for flight. The ground was much littered in this place, and she gave too little heed to her going. She stumbled, nearly went down, and would have gone down had a strong arm not caught and steadied her.

  The master crafter murmured quick thanks and looked up to see the fair-ward who had hired her skills.

  His hold loosened but did not entirely release.

  “That was a wise choice, lady artist,” he said gravely.

  Had Roma been a woman like to faint, she would have done so then, but she merely drew one sharp breath and then answered him evenly since it was apparent that she had been seen.

  “It was a fool’s choice, perhaps, but it is mine, and I stand by it.”

  For all her firmness of voice, her legs felt unsteady under her, and she did not trust herself to draw away from his hold.

  The man sensed her need. He deftly guided her toward one of the wineshops and commandeered a relatively quiet table on the outer ring of those set around it, his glare being sufficient to drive off two others who had been making for it. In another minute, a goblet wench had set a bottle and two glasses before them.

  Roma emptied two goblets in quick succession before she felt enough herself to face her companion in something of her old manner.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she began.

  “Rural. It is a common enough one where I come from.” “And that is?”

  “An island in the Western Sea. You would not know its name.” He smiled. “You would probably call me a barbarian, although, of course, my people do not consider ourselves such.”

  “Your manner declares that you are not.”

  The woman did not want to discuss either what had happened or what might have happened, but neither was she eager to begin the walk back to her kinfolk.

  That could not be helped.

  “I keep you from your duties. . . .”

  “My duty requires that I guard the treasures of this fair, its great artists.”

  She recalled how very nearly she had betrayed all that gave her claim to that title, and a sob she could not check broke from her.

  His hand closed over hers, warm and firm. “Nay, lady. You were sore troubled, and your soul was pressed in hard war, but it conquered most completely. Rejoice in that, and do not think to weep. Come. I shall see you safely to your own place.”

  He smiled. “You must have rest, you know, if we are to work together tomorrow. “

  Perhaps the wine emboldened her, for her eyes raised and locked with his. “Rural, how come you to be a fair-ward?”

  “I would not consent to walk without arms,” he answered, “and this was the only way to retain them here.”

  Morning found Rural at Roma’s stall.

&
nbsp; “Are you still willing to work with me?” he asked.

  “Of course. Sit you here in this chair by my workbench and describe your brother as closely as you can for me.”

  He obeyed, and the woman shut her eyes, listening intently. When she thought the moment was ripe, she sought his mind, found and entered it.

  She gasped. He was there, and consciously aware of her. He started in surprise, then laughed and bade her welcome.

  So that is how you work so well! his thought exclaimed. I imagined I felt something of power in you but could not identify it because it is somewhat different from that of my own clan.

  I do no hurt. . . .

  None. Proceed, lady artist. I am as curious now to watch how you do this as to see your finished portrait.

  The master crafter worked very swiftly, for with the birth-right to guide her hands, there was no hesitancy or need for even momentary pause upon her. The wax almost magically assumed the likeness of a young man, and the paint whose mixing was as much a secret of Clan Lorekin as the birthright itself imparted fullness and seeming life to it.

  Rural gazed into the still wet face when she held it up to him for his inspection, and he was forced to turn from her. “Lady, such talent . . .”

  He took hold of himself.

  “This confirms both the strength of your power and your control of it. Will you give me your aid?”

  “How?” the woman asked in amazement. “For what purpose?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You were within my mind.”

  “Not to read it, certainly not without your consent. That—that would be a violation worse even than the rape of a woman’s body!”

  “But you do read. . . .”

  “I listen! My patrons struggle to convey their meaning through the very limited medium of words, aided, perhaps, by some poor miniature. I can hear the mind and the heart directly, but it is only to that which they wish to impart that attune my listening.”

  He looked into her flashing eyes, and fire sparked in his own in response. “What a woman! With you to help me, I almost think I have a hope of winning!”

  “You’ll not have that aid without giving me more information,” she pointed out.

  “My story is brief. Better than two years ago, I returned to my parents’ house with my newly made bride. It was a festive occasion, the more so because it was also my natal day, but all joy soured when a slate broke loose from the roof, striking and instantly slaying my young wife. The following year, last year, on that same date, a fire began in my brother’s chamber which consumed him before it could be quenched.

  “The magus of my clan is both strongly gifted and learned, and she was not long in determining that I did indeed lie under a black curse, as all were by then claiming.

  “She could not free me of it. Her power was not sufficient and perhaps not her courage, either, though I, for one, cannot fault her if that last be true. No paltry wizard put it on me, but one older and stronger and more terrible than any mere human, one out of the dim past before even our legends took full form.

  “She learned enough before being forced to break her search to tell me that a now nameless lord, whose line seed I am, defeated and chained that dark thing, which has at long last wakened again and has discovered its ancient foeman’s line still lives. It has determined to annihilate every last drop of that blood, of which I am, apparently, the chiefmost representative, lest a second defeat be dealt unto it.”

  “Why not strike you down first, then?”

  There was no humor in the smile he bent upon her. “I represent that long dead man to it. I must suffer the loss of all I love first, before going into doom myself.”

  “Your own sword . . .”

  He nodded. “Before my next natal day if I fail here, but then the curse may merely settle on some other. Even were that not so, I prefer to front my foe, defeat it if I can, or at least perish trying if hope be only vanity.”

  “That is why you needs must go armed?”

  “Aye, though it is but a concession to my own fear. I well know that no sword or knife, much less a staff, will help me against this foe.”

  “Your enemy’s name?”

  He shook his head. “I know not, nor even its nature, save that it is far beyond ours or our ken.”

  Roma was silent a long time. “What would you have me do, Rural?” she said at last. “I am no wizard, no magus, no priestess, just a craftswoman with a gift that allows me to please my patrons more completely than most can.”

  “Accompany me in mind. Not into battle,” he hastened to assure her, “just to the border of its stronghold. I have been able to trace it so far myself but have failed to locate any gate. Another’s power linked to mine should enable me to do so or strengthen me enough to force an entrance.”

  “Then?”

  “This is my enemy, my fight, very probably my death or more than death. I bring no other into that. Only wait for me.

  If I do return, it may well be that I shall lack the strength to come back into this waking realm on my own.”

  He waited a few seconds, but when she did not speak, he started to rise. At least she had not refused him outright.

  “It’s no minor asking. Weigh it carefully and also the price. . . .”

  “No price!” the woman said sharply. “I know not why I feel so, but I think it could be deadly to both of us if I went with you against such a thing for gain.”

  She drew a deep breath. “Aye, I will help you in so far as I can.”

  “Gramercy, lady.

  “When?”

  “My tour ends at midnight. I shall send my mind for you as soon as I can after that. Be in your cot, as if sleeping.” “I’ll be waiting.”

  The new day was scarcely five minutes old before Rural came for her as he had- promised.

  “What now?” she asked him.

  “Just travel with me. I shall tell you when we reach the barrier, though doubtless you will realize that yourself once you see it. Gently now, and try not to fear. The paths we must tread are passing strange.”

  That journey was eerie, and she did fear, but Roma Ní Jespar would not give terror any rein whatsoever as she forced herself to concentrate on that eldritch route; it might too easily prove that she would have to return upon it alone, or else bearing a burden incapable of giving her any guidance.

  At first, it seemed that they but moved through the fair, albeit with astonishing speed, but once they reached the outer section, they left it.

  They left not only Ithkar but every other known place. It was as if they had leaped from her familiar, solid world into another realm entirely, and the master crafter trembled in her heart because she sensed that this was truly so.

  All around them was light or mist or some impossible combination of both, so that nothing of the country, if country it were, was perceptible to her.

  They traveled a long while thus before Roma became aware of a change, subtle at first but rapidly growing, a chilling, a darkening, a faint, noxious stench.

  Rural stopped abruptly, and she with him. A vast patch, an infinity, of muddy blackness blocked all the way before them.

  “Therein lies my enemy,” the fair-ward said grimly.

  The life pulse throbbed painfully within her. She understood. By all she once revered, she knew. . . .

  “Rural,” she whispered, “that is the lair of no elemental thing. It’s a god that waits within, a god totally of the dark path.”

  He reeled as if struck. He had not guessed before but now knew that she must be right, all too terribly right. Scant wonder he had failed to pierce its—his—guards!

  “It is hopeless, then. I am lost, and all mine with me.” The woman’s head lifted. A god, and a vile one, but they were all that in one sense or another.

  To her surprise, she found that she feared this unknown being less than she would have dreaded a confrontation with the Mother. There was no betrayal here, no pretense of benevolence, no lie, nothing but the avowed inte
ntion of destruction, the corruption, the warping inevitable to and inherent in all true evil.

  “We can front him, at the least, brand him with the knowledge that his stronghold is not inviolable, mayhap put our mark on him. Your ancestor did more than that, after all.”

  “Not we, but I alone. . . .”

  “Nay. I’ll not stand here, shaking in terror at what might come ravening out to claim me. I, too, shall face my fate down.”

  So saying, she swept past him so that he must follow after her, and the barrier that had held the man back gave way before her, for her hate and bitterness were founded upon the violation of what had been deep trust, while that opposing her was without true cause, merely the hatred of life and of all things free and clean.

  All inside was filth, spiritual muck. The air was foul, a palpable mist more than half slime. It soiled their souls and would of a certainty have slain their bodies had they ventured here in physical nature.

  They halted, waiting. Both knew they were not alone within the canker.

  Another was coming. They could feel him draw nigh, an immense, awesome presence of destruction only, desolation given volition, and despite themselves, each clung to the other. They had come for this, but now that the moment was nigh upon them, both knew they could not succeed.

  Then Roma saw their foe and recognized him. His face was so beautiful in its reality as to wake her every longing, so corrupt as to wrench the stomach within her, so tragic in the twisting of the potential of what might have been had this entity given his will to the light that she could nigh unto have wept for grief.

  Thotharn laughed. They felt that, although his expression did not change.

  Without word or sign or forewarning of any sort, he raised his hand, and a scarlet stream of liquid flame roared toward them.

  Rural’ s will rose up, met and scattered it into a shower of sparks.

  The next thrust he likewise parried, and the next.

  He missed that following in his concentration upon screening his companion, but Roma had seen how he fought, and, although she was no more a warrior in spirit than in body, she interposed her own schooled will as their defense until he should recover himself.