Dhiammara

6 Metamorphosis

According to the messenger, Vannor’s life hung in the balance. There was no time to lose. Yanis had put the fastest of the Nightrunner ships at Tarnal’s disposal and the winds were fair for Nexis, but to Zanna the vessel seemed frozen in time, as though it were trapped in the same ice that gripped her heart. She stood in the prow, grasping the rail until her fingers ached, trying to will the ship forward with every ounce of her formidable strength and her desperate need. Every second might make a difference. Her younger brother Antor was already dead—she had been given no chance to say her farewells to him. Zanna felt her heart constrict inside her with pain. It was so unfair! Antor had been little more than a child—he had scarcely begun to live, and now he never would.

Zanna swallowed back her tears, determined to stay in command of her emotions in this crisis. If only Tarnal were by her side to reassure her—but, as usual, he had assumed command. She could hear his voice in the background, giving orders to the men as he strove to plot the fastest course and adjust the sails so that every last scrap of speed could be coaxed from the boisterous wind. His zeal was unnecessary—this crew had been together for a long time and knew what was needed—but Zanna understood Tarnal’s need for occupation to prevent his thoughts from dwelling upon what might await them in Nexis. She, alas, was without such means of surcease, and she missed her husband desperately, wanting the comfort and support of his loving presence.—On the vessel flew, a grey shadow in the night-black sea, with the wind singing in die sheets and a high curl of creamy foam where the bows carved a path through the tossing waves. Unable to contain her impatience, Zanna left the bows and began to pace the slanting deck, oblivious to the risk. Hurry!—Her thoughts urged the vessel on. Oh, hurry! We must get there in time!—How could this happen now, when everything had been going so well? The seven years since the Battle of the Vale had been good ones. Is this our fault?—Zanna wondered as she paced. Did we let ourselves become complacent? When Vannor returned to the Nightrunners with the news that both Aurian and Anvar had vanished from the world, it had seemed a catastrophe beyond all understanding. Zanna and the Mages’ other friends and companions had grieved long and hard for them both, and Parric had been inconsolable. It had taken several days for Vannor to persuade them that not only their friends had been lost, but their enemies, too. Eliseth had gone the same way as Aurian and Anvar—then news arrived from Yanis’s contacts in Nexis that the Archmage had also disappeared.

Zanna remembered with shame how she had berated her father for his pursuit of power when Aurian had so lately been lost. He had been right, though. With Nexis leaderless, the people had been desperate for someone to fill the lack.—With Sangra’s assistance, Vannor had sobered up the grieving Parric with brutal efficiency and enlisted the Cavalrymaster’s help, and that of the rebel and exiled communities. Yanis had provided ships and the armed support of the Nightrunners—and within a month, the former Head of the Merchants’ Guild had become High Lord of Nexis.

Then the changes had begun. With the Magefolk gone, the shadows of awe and fear had been lifted from the Nexians, and a new age had blossomed under Vannor’s beneficent rule. The accessible items from Miathan’s hoarded supplies had been released from the Academy, and new recruits for the Garrison had been trained hastily by Parric and Sangra. Robbers and footpads had been dealt with, making the night safer for folk to walk abroad. The merchants who exploited the Nexians had been persuaded to mend their ways by the disciplined troops backing Vannor’s authority. Homes were rebuilt for the poor and dispossessed, and the wretched beggars vanished from the streets. Jarvas’s sanctuary was rebuilt as a shelter for the old and needy, and a school for healers had been established there, under the auspices of an unusually sober Benziorn.

Vannor had given the citizens of Nexis years of peace and plenty—yet Zanna was aware that not everyone favored the new High Lord of Nexis, and what he had wrought. The one great disaster of Vannor’s reign had been his failure to deal with the sporadic attacks by the Phaerie, and people who had lost family and friends blamed him for the disappearance of their loved ones. The merchants, also, were incensed by the decimation of their profits and what they saw as unwarranted interference in their affairs. The fact that Vannor had once been Head of the Merchants’ Guild added insult to injury. In the fulfillment of a long-cherished dream, he had overridden their objections and outlawed the practice of bonding—and that, Zanna knew, might well have been the final outrage that had precipitated this attack.

As the darkness began to give way in the east, the ship turned into the estuary. Soon the docks of Easthaven, grey and indistinct in the ghostly morning light, loomed into sight and passed like slowly moving shadows as the ship continued upriver. Zanna closed her eyes in pain. It seemed that everything was conspiring to remind her of her father today, for the river passage was another of Vannor’s innovations. In consultation with Yanis and the other merchant captains, he had had the river dredged, the weir removed, and a series of locks installed to allow the passage of ships all the way to Nexis itself. Today, Zanna blessed her father’s foresight. It would allow her to reach his side all the quicker.

Zanna and Tarnal wasted no time waiting for the ship to dock at Nexis.—Instead, they had themselves put ashore where the gardens of Vannor’s mansion stretched right down to th river. Zanna was shocked by the number of armed soldiers guarding the flimsy jetty and patrolling the grounds, but to her relief, Sangra was commanding them and allowed herself and Tamal to pass immediately, without delaying them with unnecessary talk. After running hand in hand up the steep graveled paths, they arrived breathless at the house.—Dulsina herself opened the door to them, her face white and her eyes red from weeping and bruised beneath from sleeplessness and strain. Without a word, the two women fell into one another’s arms.

“Is he ... ?” Zanna was the first to pull away. Whatever the nature of the news, she could bear the suspense no longer.

“No—not yet. He’s still fighting, but . . .” Dulsina shook her head as she guided Zanna and Tarnal across the hall and into Vannor’s study. Parric was already there, pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the fire.

“Zanna . . .” The Cavalrymaster’s voice was choked as he held out his arms to her. “I’m sorry, love,” he said hoarsely. “I blame myself. If the Garrison had guarded him better ...”

“Nonsense,” Dulsina interrupted crisply. “Don’t be so daft, Parric. Things are bad enough here without that kind of stupid self-recrimination. Make yourself useful instead, and get Zanna and Tarnal a glass of wine.” She turned to Zanna. “The Gods only know how someone could have got into the house to do this terrible thing. It seems to have been the bread that was poisoned, but we’ve lost the cook along with the rest of the servants, so I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out. I only escaped because I was staying overnight in the city with Hebba—she hasn’t been too well of late.” Dulsina bit her lip. “We have to face it, Zanna—this is a cruel poison. Your poor father is suffering so greatly that death would be a merciful release.” Fresh tears shone in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my dear. Even Benziorn says that nothing can be done. He can only give soporifics to Vannor, to ease his passing from this world.”

Dulsina’s face shimmered into a blur as Zanna’s own eyes filled with tears.—Her breath caught in her throat to become a convulsive sob. Tarnal, visibly mastering his own grief to support his wife, put his arms around her, and Zanna drew strength from the embrace. “Can I see him now?” she asked in a small voice that she scarcely recognized as her own.

Zanna had no idea how many hours she had sat at her father’s bedside, but darkness had fallen outside the window long ago, and her eyes felt like burning coals in her head. Dulsina sat opposite, shivering with weariness, and Benziorn would come in from time to time to check on his patient, shake his head, and leave again with a sigh. Vannor lay cold and still as though he were a corpse already, his eyes half-open but glazed and unseeing, and his breathing so shallow as to be barely perceptible. His limp hand felt chill and clammy in Zanna’s grasp. The waiting was unbearable—this knowing that it could only be a matter of time. Almost, Zanna wished that it could be over, to spare both her father and herself—yet while he lived, how could she help but hope for a miracle? She remembered the time she had rescued him from the clutches of the Magefolk, and led him to safety through the pitch-black maze of the library archives, and the dreadful, stinking sewers. Now Vannor was embarking on a darker road still—and this time, there seemed to be no way that she could bring him home.

She must have dozed a little—Zanna jumped guiltily awake as her sleep was disturbed. Faint grey daylight glimmered at the window, and there was a low hubbub of voices coming from the hall downstairs. Now what? She scowled. Why were Tarnal and Parric allowing this to happen? There was a sick man up here—he shouldn’t be disturbed. After a few moments the door opened, and Tarnal put his head into the room, beckoning Zanna and Dulsina away from Vannor’s bedside and out into the upstairs hall. “I thought you should know,” he whispered. “There’s someone at the door—an old crone by the look—she’s all muffled up in shawls and stuff. She says she’s an herbwife, and swears she has an ancient remedy handed down from her grandmother that can save Vannor’s life. It’s probably a lot of nonsense, but . . .” He held out his hands and shrugged. “What is there to lose? The only thing is, Benziorn is furious—he says she’s a fraud and there is no cure, but she’s after a reward for trying.—He’s insisting that we send her away.”

Zanna and Dulsina looked at each other. “Send her up,” they replied in unison.—The crone insisted on being alone in the room while she worked. This gave Zanna a shiver of unease, then she thought: Let her. What harm can she do at this stage? Then the old woman went inside, the door closed firmly behind her, and there was nothing to do but wait—and pray. Dulsina, Zanna, and Tarnal gathered in an uneasy knot outside the door, and after a short time, Parric, looking pale and strained, came up to join them, carrying a tray with cups and a bottle of spirits that he put down on a little table by the wall. They waited, saying little, sipping sparingly at the warming brandy while Benziorn paced below in the hall, muttering and cursing under his breath, and occasionally casting black looks up at Vannor’s closed door.

Eliseth emerged from Vannor’s chamber, clutching the basket that contained the grail hidden beneath a cloth, and laughing inwardly to see the circle of anxious faces that waited to greet her. Thanks to her illusion of an ancient hag, these fools had no idea of her true identity. All had gone according to plan. She had dispatched the merchant with another dose of poison, and brought him back to life again using the grail. He had no memory of what she had done.—Though he did not know it yet, Vannor now belonged to her.

The Mage risked a sidelong, venomous glance at Zanna as the woman stepped forward anxiously. “What happened, goodwife? How is my father?”

Collecting herself quickly, Eliseth composed her features into the illusion of a toothless smile. “Be at ease, my lady, all is well. Your father was far gone indeed—but my skills have drawn him back. Even now, he is recoveri—” She was talking to empty air. With a joyous cry, Zanna had flown into her father’s room, with Dulsina following close at her heels.

Tarnal stepped forward with a smile. “You must forgive them, old mother—they aren’t really ungrateful. This family owes you a debt beyond all paying, but we will do our best, for you’ve brought us a miracle tonight. I’m sure they will be back directly, once they see for themselves that Vannor is all right.—In the meantime, would you like to come downstairs and refresh yourself?”

Eliseth shook her head. “Thank you, but I will wait here,” she replied firmly.—She did not have long to wait, however. After a short time Zanna emerged, her glowing face transfigured with delight. “He was awake! He knew me! He’s going to get well again!” Collecting herself, she turned to Eliseth. “Good mother, how can I thank you? Whatever is in my power to give you is yours—you only have to say the word.” She waited expectantly. The Mage shook her head. “My Lady, I ask for nothing. To see our dear Lord Vannor restored to health is reward enough for me.

“But there must be some way to repay you,” Zanna protested.

“Truly, I want nothing. By your leave, I will go now,” Eliseth replied.—Leaving the Mortals openmouthed behind her, she went downstairs and scurried out of the house, remembering that she was meant to be an old woman, and therefore must not stride. No one attempted to stop her—which was just as well for them.

You’ll repay me, Zanna, never fear, Eliseth thought as she took the river road back toward the Academy. I’ll receive my reward when your precious father kills your husband and children before your eyes—leaving you to be dealt with by me. The Mage smiled grimly. Vannor’s escape from the Academy seven years ago had cost her a good deal of embarrassment and inconvenience, and Zanna was to blame. But she had made a grave mistake in crossing Eliseth. Revenge would be sweet—but sadly, it must be postponed for a time. If she wanted to rule the city through Vannor, it was vital that he act as he usually did—or suspicions would be aroused. Besides, when Aurian came back into the world Vannor would be among the first people she contacted. Eliseth would have the earliest possible news of her enemy’s movements and plans, and that would give her an inestimable advantage.

Eliseth made the most of the fact that it was early morning, and few people were up and about, to slip back unnoticed into the Academy. On entering her chambers, she freed Bern from the time spell that had held him immobile in her absence. Over the last few days, she had convinced the baker that it had been he who had murdered his wife and children, and that the guards were combing the city for him. In return for her sheltering him in the safety of the Academy, he had sworn to serve her—but she did not trust him enough to go out and leave him unattended. Bern had been sunk deep in guilt and misery since the deaths of his family and she would not put it past him to go down into the city and turn himself in—betraying her presence in the process. That would be a catastrophe, but even if he were simply to take his own life out of guilt, it would be an inconvenience. It was beneath her, as one of the Magefolk, to take care of herself.

Having sent Bern to make some breakfast, Eliseth took the grail from her basket and filled it with water from the jug on the table. Before she ate, she would check on Vannor, and see how his so-called recovery was progressing. She wanted to make quite sure she could control him, for she could think of many tasks for him to perform, to secure the city for her return and bring the recalcitrant Mortals under her control. And one of the first of his tasks, she thought grimly, would be to mount an attack on those accursed Phaerie! Though she knew that Vannor stood little chance of defeating the Forest Lord and his subjects, he might at least weaken them sufficiently for Eliseth to succeed where he had failed. And if a few hundreds of Mortals were lost in the process—so what? They bred like rabbits anyway—there would soon be more.—The Mage looked into the depths of the chalice and concentrated on summoning the image of Vannor. She found the merchant sitting up in bed and eating soup, surrounded by his family, who were watching the progress of every spoonful from his plate to his mouth.

Tentatively, Eliseth wormed her way into Vannor’s mind, reading his thoughts like an open book as she sifted through hopes, dreams, fears, and plans. As an interesting bonus, she found out what had happened to Aurian during her enemy’s travels across the sea, for the Mage and Anvar had told the entire tale to Vannor on their return. Eliseth committed the details to her memory—they might very well come in useful one day. Then she turned her attention back to her victim. She wanted a test of her control that would not alert or alarm Vannor’s loved ones. After a moment’s thought, she exerted her will, and made him drop the spoon into his bowl, splashing hot soup on the coverlet.

Dulsina started up with an anxious cry. “What happened? Are you all right? Do you feel ill again?”

Vannor shook his head, mopping ineffectually at the soup stains on the quilt.

“I’m all right love, don’t fuss. I can’t think what came over me—my attention just wandered for a minute. I must still be tired, I expect.”

Smiling smugly, Eliseth withdrew from his mind and returned to her own body.—Her triumph lent extra savor to her food. She had dealt successfully with Vannor—and now it was time to deal with Anvar. To a Mage, knowledge was power, and her appetite had been whetted by the information she had picked up from Vannor’s mind about Aurian’s adventures. She wanted to know more about the Southern Lands—and Anvar had actually been there. Still smiling, she went downstairs and selected a long, keen dagger from the guardroom armory. Then she returned to her room, filled the grail to the brim with water, and, carrying it carefully in both hands, she made her way up to the rooftop where Aurian’s lover lay.

The air outside was thick and oppressive, almost humming with tension. Thick, heavy towers of black cloud had massed across the city, and Eliseth could hear the low, menacing growl of distant thunder. She felt a shudder of ecstasy run through her. As the raw, wild power of the storm drew closer, so the strength of her magic would increase. Through the viscous, copper-tinged gloom she could make out the faint blue glimmer of her time spell across the roof and hurried toward it, walking carefully so as not to spill the water from the grail. Anvar lay facedown on the roof where she had left him, a long dark form whose identity was indistinguishable beneath the crawling, flickering blue web of the spell. Eliseth set down the chalice with a decisive click on the roof’s smooth paving, and laid down the dagger close to her hand. “At last,” she breathed. “It will take more than Aurian to save you now.” Then gathering her powers, she arrowed them toward him, and dissolved her spell.

The victim of a time spell experienced a few moments of disorientation as the binding magic was removed—it was an easy matter for Eliseth to remove the spell and to replace it with one of simple sleep, before Anvar had time to struggle or even realize what was happening to him. Once she had him helpless she began to tear into his mind, raping it of information, wrenching his thoughts apart without a care for the suffering she caused him and reveling in the soundless screams of his trapped and tortured spirit as his body convulsed in agony. Eliseth was enjoying herself. In hurting Anvar she was striking out at Aurian—and though she could have obtained the knowledge she needed far more easily had she killed her victim and taken control as she had done with Bern, she wanted to impose her will upon him, and make him suffer.

The entire story of her enemy’s long journey spun into Eliseth’s mind too fast for her to follow, but that did not concern her. As long as she had the information in her memory, she could peruse the details later, at her leisure.—When at last she was certain that she had taken all she wanted from Anvar’s mind she withdrew, picked up her dagger, and looked down upon the last spasms of his agonized writhing with icy scorn. She put a knee into his back, dragged his head up by the hair, and removed her spell. She felt his body tense as he regained consciousness. Down came her hand, and her sharp blade hissed across his throat, laying it open in a burst of crimson gore. As Anvar’s lifeblood pumped across her hands, Eliseth threw back her head and laughed triumphantly.—This time, Anvar went hurtling through Death’s grey doorway so fast that he barely had time to notice the intricate carvings. Before he truly had time to take in what had happened to him he found himself, stunned, outraged, and aghast, in the silvery half-light of the world beyond the portal, with the path to eternity at his feet.

“No!” Even as he howled his protest, the door slammed shut behind him with a low, concussive boom that carried dreadful overtones of finality. Spitting out curses, Anvar hurled himself again and again at the unyielding door—but to no avail. Suddenly, the memory returned to him of agony and helplessness, with Eliseth’s thoughts raking through his mind like searing talons—and Eliseth’s knife at his throat. Anvar stopped hammering at the door. His hands fell limply to his sides as cold dread congealed deep within him. With growing horror he realized that while last time he had entered this place voluntarily and had been permitted to leave again, he was here for good this time. He thought of Aurian, saw a vivid image of her strong-boned, serious face and flaming hair in his mind’s eye. A pang went through him like a dagger piercing his heart at the thought of losing her. This can’t be happening! His thoughts churned aimlessly in panic. I can’t be dead! Suddenly Anvar felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Get away from me,” he snarled, his voice cracking in fear. Even as he spun, a voice cried out: “Anvar? Lad—it is you!”

To his utter astonishment, Anvar found himself looking into the face of Forral.

“What happened?” the swordsman demanded. “How did you die? Where’s Aurian?” In his anxiety for answers he reached out and grabbed Anvar by the shoulders, shaking him impatiently while the Mage tried in vain to settle the jumbled upheaval of his thoughts. “Forral—leave him be.”

Anvar remembered that ominous, chilling voice all too well. He looked up and shuddered. Death seemed to think his hermit guise unnecessary for someone who had passed through his realm before, and his dark, shrouded figure loomed over the two men at the gate. But the Specter’s attention seemed all to be fixed on Forral. “This has gone far enough,” he snapped. “Mortal, will you never learn?—I had a certain respect for your courage and strength of will. While you interfered with no one but yourself, I was willing to permit you your folly, but twice now you have accosted the souls within my care. Last time, your interference robbed a man of his natural passing and allowed him to be snatched into an unnatural slavery.”

Death’s voice was stern and implacable. “Forral, I cannot—dare not—permit you to linger here any longer. I had never thought to see these times again, but there is a power in the mundane world that is misusing the Caldron of Rebirth, and it is no longer safe for you to remain in the vicinity of the Gates. You must come with me now—both of you—and enter the Well of Souls to be reborn before it is too late.”

Forral’s hands were still clamped around Anvar’s shoulders like bands of iron, but the Mage paid them little heed. At the Specter’s words, he finally understood what Eliseth was doing—and why. Even as he opened his mouth to warn the others, he felt a wrongness beginning—the first stirrings of an arcane, invisible force that reached through the closed door of Death like the turning of an unclean tide. The misty scene around him flickered and began to grow dim as he felt himself caught, as though in the grip of a giant hand, and pulled back toward the portal that separated the living from the dead.

“No!” Death roared. “I will not permit this!”

For an instant all was confusion. Anvar felt one of Forral’s hands slip from his shoulder, though the swordsman’s grip with the other hand tightened. The force from beyond the door continued to tug at the Mage, harder and harder, its pull becoming painful as the intensity increased. Then Anvar felt, for the first time, the numbing non-touch of Death as the Specter’s hands clamped tightly around his arms. There came a cry from Forral—of horror and triumph mixed—and then only two figures stood where three had stood before.—On the roof of the Academy, the Weather-Mage finished applying water from the grail to the gaping wound in Anvar’s throat, and watched with satisfaction as the blood stopped pumping from the severed arteries and the sundered flesh began to knit itself back together. Eliseth waited tensely. It seemed to be taking a long time to bring her victim back to life—far longer than it had taken for the restoration of Bern. She glowered down at the lifeless body, clenching her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into the skin of her palms. If this didn’t work...

Anvar convulsed once, arching his spine like a stranded fish as his chest heaved with a wheezing, gasping breath. Eliseth acted instantly, striking out at him with another time spell. She sat back, feeling immensely relieved. For a moment she thought of removing the spell again to test her control as she had done with Bern and Vannor—but then again, why take the risk? The grail had worked perfectly well with the first two victims, and it was far more powerful than any magic this thin-blooded half-breed might possess to resist it.—Besides, Eliseth was in a hurry. She had done what she’d set out to do—and the information she’d gleaned from Anvar’s mind was even more useful than she had hoped. Until now, she had never thought beyond Nexis—but why limit her ambitions to the North? With Vannor in her power she had control here, and Anvar was in place, ready for Aurian’s return. If she traveled south now and sought other races to control, she could increase her power a thousandfold before her enemies—either Aurian or Miathan, wherever he should be, could find her. Besides, she would be safely out of the way when she instructed Vannor to make an attack on the Phaerie. If they should strike back at the city—as well they might—she wanted to be nowhere in the vicinity. Furthermore, the Magewoman had discovered in Anvar’s mind the details of an invincible stronghold from which she could eventually hold the reins of the world in safety and security. It was as well that there were no more dragons in the city of Dhiammara, for Eliseth intended to use the place herself.

In that instant, the Mage’s smug thoughts were cut off by a searing crack of thunder. Beneath her feet, the foundations of the tower began to shake.—Eliseth sensed that some alien, unrecognizable variety of magic had triggered the earthquake, but had no idea that, in using the grail’s powers in the Academy, she had sprung a trap that had been laid for her long ago. As the tower rocked and vibrated, her mind went blank with panic. The tower, protected from destruction by the residual magic from the many spells that had soaked into its structure over the centuries, was probably as safe a place as any. Eliseth could do nothing but stay where she was—and watch in horror as the city crumbled around her.

A piece of the balustrade that bounded the edges of the tower roof cracked and broke loose, vanishing into the depths below. Eliseth crouched down low for stability, clinging tightly to the precious grail, and looked out through the gap at the collapse of the city.

From somewhere in the center of Nexis the Mage heard the tearing crack of stone as the Garrison plateau with its large walled complex of buildings fractured right across the middle. The high, protective walls that Miathan had built around the townlands broke apart and toppled in a hail of stones, and a surging wave of earth was shrugged loose from the southern slopes upstream from the city to fill the valley bottom with debris. A long fissure appeared in the riverbed below the Academy and the gathered waters went swirling and boiling down into the bowels of the earth in a burgeoning cloud of dust and steam.

At last it was over. The tortured landscape ceased to quake, and the dust began to settle. The only sounds were the groans and screams of the injured and bereaved. Throughout the city dozens of fires had sprung up, spreading the destruction further. Eliseth shuddered, paying no heed to the suffering of the Mortals below. Her thoughts were all for herself. She had no idea what, exactly, had happened—but she had a very bad feeling that it had been aimed at her, and that the missing Archmage was behind it, somehow. It was high time she got out of here.

Some three days later, Yanis was surprised to receive a message from Vannor asking for a swift ship to ferry some unknown person and a manservant to the Southern Kingdoms. He was very surprised that Zanna’s father had time to concern himself with such trifles right now, for after the mysterious earthquake, the Lord of Nexis, only just recovering from his illness, had his work cut out to keep order and deal with the crisis. It made little difference to Yanis, however. Considering the amount of gold that Vannor was offering, the Night-runner was only too happy to oblige in person, though for some reason the mysterious traveler, who spent the whole journey heavily hooded and cloaked, made him very uneasy. But by the time he had dropped off his passenger in a secluded cove on the southern coast, and made the return journey through seas that were still unstable and storm-tossed after the quake, all traces of his earlier curiosity had vanished from his mind—along with all memory of the unknown voyager.