“I’ll undertake to complete it as I can.”
“Has she left anyone a choice in the matter?”
He was wry, which was reassuring: it meant that he was
getting his temper back in hand. He ran shaking fingers through his hair,
pulling out the last of the plait.
Vanyi regarded him in something resembling sympathy. “We can
still talk,” she said. “That’s not so ill.”
“But I can’t be there.” He leaped to his feet, scattering priests and mages, and paced out his
frustration. “If we muster all our power, ward it with all our strength, then
raise another Gate—this time let me go through it. If the Gate alone isn’t
enough, the Kasar may be—”
She stopped him before he could go any further. “You will
not! I don’t even dare raise one here. It’s deadly, Starion. And don’t tell me
how strong you are,” she said, as he opened his mouth. “I know it to the last
drop of power. It might be enough. But it might not. We can’t have the emperor
dead, no matter where his heirs are, or how long it will take them to get back
unless we raise the Gates again.”
He was looking fully as rebellious as Daruya, and about as
young. But he had more sense, or more cynicism. The rebellion faded from his
face. He raised his hands, sighed. “Hells take you for being right. I’ll go mad
here, waiting.”
“Of course you won’t,” she said briskly. “You’ll be too
busy. Isn’t today your judgment-day? You must be late already.”
“I put it off,” he snapped. Good, she thought: he was
thinking, even with his temper as chancy as it was. “See here, Vanyi. We’ve got
to do something.”
“And so I shall,” she said. “I’m going over the mountains,
just as I planned to. Do think, next time you want to talk to me. The people
here are sure I’m a lunatic, or a god’s plaything.”
“Wise people,” said Estarion. “Vanyi, you’re not—”
“I have to go,” she said.
Even as he began his protests, she cut him off, raised the
shields about her mind, withdrew into the temple, in the dimness and the
strangeness and the scent of incense. Someone was chanting. The younger
Guardian? Or did they keep a priest or two here, to preserve their pretense of
holiness?
She was too tired to hunt down the voice and ask. She could,
in fact, have slept where she stood. Speaking across the world was harder than
it looked while one did it.
She found a bed, it little mattered where, and fell into it,
clothes and all. Not even fear could keep her awake, nor her creaking bones,
nor grief for the mages whom she had lost. She laid them all on the breast of
Lady Night, and herself with them. If she had dreams, she remembered none of
them, till it was morning again, and fear and pain and grief were locked once
more about her neck.
7
Vanyi thrust aside the remnants of breakfast, unrolling
the map that Faliad had brought for her, anchoring it with cups and bowls and a
jug half-full of the local ale. The others—all of them, mages and Olenyai and
Sunchildren—craned as best they could, to see what was drawn on the fine
parchment.
She ignored them. “So,” she said. “Here we are, out on the
western edge of Merukarion—Su-Akar, we should be calling it, I suppose. This is
the town called Kianat, and here are the mountains that are only foothills.
What’s this?” She peered. “‘Here be demons’?”
The younger Guardian of the fallen Gate, whose name was
Talian, spoke quickly. “There are, truly. The mountains are full of them. They
haunt the peaks, and lure travelers astray.”
Vanyi shot her a glance. She was flushing under the sallow
bronze of her skin and wishing transparently that Faliad were here to spare her
the ordeal. But the elder Guardian, having slept little if at all, was standing
watch in the outer temple.
Vanyi decided to have mercy on this younger fool. “Ah well,
we’re mages. We’ll raise the wards and chant the spells and keep the demons at
bay.”
“Lady,” said Talian with shaky
“Has she left anyone a choice in the matter?”
He was wry, which was reassuring: it meant that he was
getting his temper back in hand. He ran shaking fingers through his hair,
pulling out the last of the plait.
Vanyi regarded him in something resembling sympathy. “We can
still talk,” she said. “That’s not so ill.”
“But I can’t be there.” He leaped to his feet, scattering priests and mages, and paced out his
frustration. “If we muster all our power, ward it with all our strength, then
raise another Gate—this time let me go through it. If the Gate alone isn’t
enough, the Kasar may be—”
She stopped him before he could go any further. “You will
not! I don’t even dare raise one here. It’s deadly, Starion. And don’t tell me
how strong you are,” she said, as he opened his mouth. “I know it to the last
drop of power. It might be enough. But it might not. We can’t have the emperor
dead, no matter where his heirs are, or how long it will take them to get back
unless we raise the Gates again.”
He was looking fully as rebellious as Daruya, and about as
young. But he had more sense, or more cynicism. The rebellion faded from his
face. He raised his hands, sighed. “Hells take you for being right. I’ll go mad
here, waiting.”
“Of course you won’t,” she said briskly. “You’ll be too
busy. Isn’t today your judgment-day? You must be late already.”
“I put it off,” he snapped. Good, she thought: he was
thinking, even with his temper as chancy as it was. “See here, Vanyi. We’ve got
to do something.”
“And so I shall,” she said. “I’m going over the mountains,
just as I planned to. Do think, next time you want to talk to me. The people
here are sure I’m a lunatic, or a god’s plaything.”
“Wise people,” said Estarion. “Vanyi, you’re not—”
“I have to go,” she said.
Even as he began his protests, she cut him off, raised the
shields about her mind, withdrew into the temple, in the dimness and the
strangeness and the scent of incense. Someone was chanting. The younger
Guardian? Or did they keep a priest or two here, to preserve their pretense of
holiness?
She was too tired to hunt down the voice and ask. She could,
in fact, have slept where she stood. Speaking across the world was harder than
it looked while one did it.
She found a bed, it little mattered where, and fell into it,
clothes and all. Not even fear could keep her awake, nor her creaking bones,
nor grief for the mages whom she had lost. She laid them all on the breast of
Lady Night, and herself with them. If she had dreams, she remembered none of
them, till it was morning again, and fear and pain and grief were locked once
more about her neck.
7
Vanyi thrust aside the remnants of breakfast, unrolling
the map that Faliad had brought for her, anchoring it with cups and bowls and a
jug half-full of the local ale. The others—all of them, mages and Olenyai and
Sunchildren—craned as best they could, to see what was drawn on the fine
parchment.
She ignored them. “So,” she said. “Here we are, out on the
western edge of Merukarion—Su-Akar, we should be calling it, I suppose. This is
the town called Kianat, and here are the mountains that are only foothills.
What’s this?” She peered. “‘Here be demons’?”
The younger Guardian of the fallen Gate, whose name was
Talian, spoke quickly. “There are, truly. The mountains are full of them. They
haunt the peaks, and lure travelers astray.”
Vanyi shot her a glance. She was flushing under the sallow
bronze of her skin and wishing transparently that Faliad were here to spare her
the ordeal. But the elder Guardian, having slept little if at all, was standing
watch in the outer temple.
Vanyi decided to have mercy on this younger fool. “Ah well,
we’re mages. We’ll raise the wards and chant the spells and keep the demons at
bay.”
“Lady,” said Talian with shaky
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