Agnith's Promise: The Vildecaz Talents, Book 3 Read online

“But it does. I’m not willing to trade half an hour now for all the years to come. You still seek to reward me, not to love me. When you do decide to love me, I’ll be overjoyed to spend hours and hours and days and years in dalliance with you.” He reached out and pinched her sajah closed. “So back into your brikes and pelgar and we can start our breakfast.” He kissed her once on the corner of her mouth.

  “If that’s what you want,” she said, and prepared to get dressed without revealing her regret.

  * * *

  Erianthee had donned her newest serinel, a beautiful creation of tawny tongue-satin with square sleeves edged in violet. The ornamentation on the bodice and sleeves was sewn in opal-thread from Ymiljesai and accented with topazes and garnets. The guin under it was Uduganish linen the color of new wine. She looked dazzling as she emerged into the rubble-free Reception Hall, offering a deep respect to the members of the Court assembled there. She took advantage of the effect she created to address herself directly to Riast, who sat with his mother and his wife on their new thrones that had been installed only two days before.

  “I have spent the last ten days in preparation for this evening,” she said, doing her best to meet the eyes of everyone watching her. “I have studied many learned texts on the summoning of prophesy and the embodiment of remetrij for prophesy, and I have done my utmost to follow the techniques set down in those pages and apply it to my own talent, a thing I’ve never done before. Whatever comes of it, know that I have done my utmost to fulfill your wishes.”

  “Let me express my gratitude to you, Duzeon, for agreeing to make this effort on my behalf and the behalf of the Empire. In such perilous times, your efforts may well save many of the people of our Empire from suffering and death. The Empress and the Dowager Empress join with me in extending our gratitude to you,” Riast responded as he rose to his feet, his new dezhup and bydoga shining with jewels and gold thread, their glory at odds with his harried expression. He caught his lower lip between his teeth as if thinking better of this great a tribute before the Shadowshow even began, but then visibly strengthened himself and continued, “I, and all the Court, realize that you are undertaking a new application of your talent, and none of us knows how it may turn out. Let no one think less of the Duzeon if the evening is not as fulfilling as we might want it to be. We’re venturing into untried regions, and we all must keep an open mind. Duzeon Erianthee, as you have requested, no magician is in this audience, and a protective spell is around the Reception Hall to guard against magical intrusion, as well as Imperial Guards at each door inside the Hall, and our spell-hounds are posted at every door. You will work without help or hindrance, according to your wishes.” He respected her and sat down.

  The fifty or so courtiers who had been permitted to attend this attempt were silent, anticipating whatever might be in store for them. No one dared whisper, for Riast had declared that any interruption would be regarded as sedition and treated as such, a prospect the Court dreaded. The lights in the room grew dimmer as everyone stared at the dais.

  Erianthee made her way through the heavy silence onto the reconstructed platform, and took her seat behind the short screen. “I’ll begin with the story of how Kylomotarch, the Forgetter and Garinekoree bargained for Eivenlijee. If prophesy is to come, it will be during the story.” She heard the faint gasp her topic evoked in some of her audience, and she thought, just as well. The dark and scandalous story of that ancient city still raised eyebrows throughout the Great World. “Garinekoree first, then Kylomotarch, the Forgetter.” Carefully she conjured the Spirits of the Outer Air into the likeness of the goddess, whose devotees were those whose work took them into the darker corridors of politics, espionage, and military action. Often described as elegant and cold, Garinekoree was the more readily embodied - a tall woman with dark hair and large, dark-gold eyes, arrayed in rich clothes and many jewels, carrying a whip and a barlo-cloak. The Spirit of the Outer Air manifested Garinekoree at half the size of Erianthee – a bit larger than she had expected, which she found at once puzzling and encouraging. The goddess flashed her eyes and the last mistiness coalesced into the appearance of living flesh. On to the god, she told herself. Kylomotarch was always shrouded in shadows, his face obscured by the hood of his gaihups, and forming him took more effort than Erianthee usually needed to manifest a Spirit of the Outer Air, although the usually large figure that resulted was more life-like than was often the case with Kylomotarch. She attributed these unexpected results to nerves and got on with her Shadowshow.

  “This is how the god and goddess fell out over the fate of Eivenlijee: it was said that Eivenlijee had long held Garinekoree to be its principle goddess, and that she favored it – in her way – above all others in the Great World, for no city was as treacherous as Eivenlijee. There were shrines to Garinekoree throughout the city, and many of its leaders praised her for aiding and abetting their schemes and machinations. She was heralded at every sunset and praised at every dawn. Children called upon her when they performed mischief and their parents invoked her favor for any nefarious deed.” The god and goddess pointed to a place where a city was becoming visible, one with high, crenelated walls and heavily fortified gates. “Kylomotarch, the Forgetter, declared that it was time that Eivenlijee be ended and pass from the memory of the Great World, which offended Garinekoree, and she challenged Kylomotarch to justify his decision. He said time needed no justification, that it was his work to declare when a place or a person or a god would pass out of living memory. and that Eivenlijee, as all things must, had come to the end of its being. Garinekoree swore she wouldn’t allow this to happen, and invited the Forgetter to participate in a contest – if the people of Eivenlijee could do things sufficiently vile that they could never be forgotten, it would remain untouched by the incursion of time. Kylomotarch, the Forgetter warned her against such a reckless wager. No challenge she issued was sufficient to cause him to change his mind. But when she spat upon him in derision, he relented and agreed to the contest. He warned her that she would lose, for no one can stay the hand of Kylomotarch, the Forgetter – all things in time succumb to his will – to which she laughed and pledged to show him even he could be wrong. He told her he would take her wager, and the thing was done. At once Garinekoree’s shadow fell darkly over the city and the city sank into debauchery and decadence, then into degeneracy. Crimes flourished, as did all manner of chicanery, and no one was safe in the streets. After a time, the contagion spread and became more virulent. Gangs of thieves stole animals and people as well as treasure. The guards who fought them were suborned with bribes and threats. Conditions deteriorated further still. Wives slaughtered husbands and children, husbands made slaves and worse of their families. The city guards became bands of robbers and kidnappers. Their superiors sought out occasions to loose havoc upon the people, and profit by the carnage they wreaked. Oaths were made and were bloodily broken. The Night Priests of Ayon-Tur established a school within the city walls, and soon every sort of betrayal, outlawry, degradation, and abuse were practiced with impunity.”

  Those seated in the audience were wriggling with discomfort. This wasn’t the kind of entertainment they had anticipated, and none of them knew how to react. The violence and wickedness that the Spirits of the Outer Air depicted now was nothing like the folk-tales and legends that Duzeon Erianthee had brought to life before. This was entirely different, and it disturbed them all. In vain they looked around them, trying to discern how they were expected to respond, but all they found was their own confusion mirrored back at them. Riast himself was no help, for he sat with his expression carefully blank, only the impatient tapping of his toe indicating anything of his state of mind.

  Spirits of the Outer Air hacked, broke, ruined, raped, tortured, pillaged, looted, razed, and burned while the god and goddess looked on, until Garinekoree turned to Kylomotarch, the Forgetter, and asked with a sinister smile, “Is this enough, or do you require more?”

  “They can be all these things, and in time no
one will remember good or ill about them,” said the Forgetter.

  “Then they will be more vile still.” Garinekoree snapped her fingers and the people of Eivenlijee sank into bestiality and incest. Infants were spitted on the swords of their parents, grotesque hybrids of man and animal were created and destroyed, the few people striving to keep the city safe were attacked and flayed, their skins hung from the battlements like banners.

  The narration had got away from her for a long moment, and now Erianthee struggled to regain it. “For generations the city of Eivenlijee was given over to the worst that its people had within them, and increasingly they suffered and despaired. Those who appealed to Garinekoree found their supplications answered with increasing ferocity, and those who implored the other gods and goddesses for mercy went unheard by any but Kylomotarch, the Forgetter.” As she spoke, Erianthee began to feel disoriented and a bit queasy. She forced herself to continue, telling herself that this was what she had been striving for. “Fires sprang up within the city’s walls and small figures ran through the streets, calling in vain for help. Where the fires had ravaged, weeds and vice took hold, and soon greater ills aro – “

  Then something formed over the main gate of the conjured city, something as large as the ceremonial seal over the entrance to Tiumboj – a face neither young nor old, pale as mist and remote, as if it was some distance away and not hanging over the dais and the conjurations of Duzeon Erianthee. The face wasn’t well enough defined to be identified, but there was something familiar about it, and when it spoke, all those listening were dumbfounded, for the voice the image used was deep and musical, rich and persuasive, an instrument of subtlety used by a master, seeming to be the epitome of the qualities of great orators. “Riast and the Court of Riast,” the vision said, the salutation ringing like the deep chimes in the Western Tower. “You seek to know your enemies, so that you won’t inadvertently strike at your friends in your time of adversity. Your enemies are many, and not all of them are known to you, as some have suspected. Many are hidden, but there are some who are in your Councils and the Court.” The voice fell silent.

  “Well?” Riast prompted when nothing more was offered.

  “You fear your son is in open revolt against you. You’ve known this for some time, but have chosen to ignore it as an error of youth, and in that you may have shown wisdom. Ambitious Bozidar may be, but he only plays at treason. He hasn’t the stomach for all-out war against you, nor do most of his comrades. Bozidar wants to show his authority and capacity for authority. He chafes at your concern for him, thinking that you are willfully keeping him a child, which in turn hampers him from fulfilling his place in the world. If you give him real work to do, he will not spend his idle days yearning for power. Most of those pledged to him would be reconciled to you and the Empire if they were received with dignity. Those who would not be reconciled will reveal themselves with time, and you may deal with them as you decide.” The vision flickered and seemed about to dissolve, but then gathered together again, although the wondrous voice began to fade. “Your son has shown you where there is discontent, which is useful information, since it gives you tools you need to reclaim your position and the strength of your Empire. You can still turn that pervasive discontent to your advantage . . . if you will address the concerns of these men and women you may spare the Empire growing conflicts, and if you do this, you will be stronger for it. There are others, though . . . some of whom claim to want to assist him, and you, who are planning to take the Empire, and you, Riast, and your son Bozidar, and be rid of you and your Court . . . so that theirs may be installed. These are powerful, dedicated men . . . and women who have been trained to work . . . in the shadows, to smile and plot devastation . . . at the same time.”

  Riast had gone pale. He stared at the dais where the face was once more crumbling. “Of whom do you speak? Who has done these things?”

  “There are . . . Those who . . . No one . . . false friends . . . The Silent One knows . . . who have the names . . . and trouble . . . implications the . . . deeds . . . ” said the vision, the voice a hollow echo of itself as the face rippled like a pond into which a pebble had fallen. A sound that might have been a sigh passed through the Reception Hall, and the face changed again, now almost transparent, the features like a blur of mist.

  There was a soft thud in the hushed room, followed by stifled exclamations from the audience.

  “The Duzeon must know who these traitors are. She must reveal what she knows!”

  “Of course she does! She knows all names!” Riast burst out, his voice shrill with ire. “Tell me!”

  “ . . . not where they . . . were . . . No one knows . . . there . . . except those . . . oaths . . . silence . . . Let not . . . surrender . . . no one . . . Priests . . . imp . . . ” The vision broke apart and attenuated to nothing. For a dozen heartbeats the whole Reception Room was frighteningly silent.

  Then the conjured Spirits of the Outer Air on the dais began to move again, but no longer with the fluid grace of breathing life – with odd, jerking motions and stiff gestures that alarmed the Court.

  “Duzeon Erianthee!” Riast shouted. “Duzeon!” There was no answer. At once there was a buzz of quiet outbursts from the courtiers, and the gathering turned anxious.

  “Do something,” Dowager Empress Godrienee said to her son. “Erianthee may be hurt.”

  As if awakened from a dream, Riast muttered, “They’ll be a mob if they have no answers. We need to clear this room quickly, and we must get the Duzeon to safety.” He gestured to three of his Imperial Guards to go behind the screen, stamping his foot as the men hesitated. “Go.”

  Five of the Imperial Guards complied and found Erianthee stretched out on the floor of the dais, unconscious.

  “Fetch Kloveon of Fauthsku. He is in the Yellow Antechamber. The Duzeon said that if she collapsed, he would know what to do,” Godrienee told her son. “Whatever you may think of Kloveon, you can’t doubt his devotion to Erianthee.”

  Riast glowered. “He is one who troubles me,” he said to his mother, not so softly that he wouldn’t be heard. “Ever since he brought me word of the conspirators, there has been nothing but trouble.”

  “For Yenotomaj, think of what you’re saying,” Godrienee hissed at him. “They’re listening.”

  “So am I,” said Empress Aiolenee in a tone Riast had never heard from her before. “If you continue to flail as you have done, I’ll have to inform my father. That could bring more difficulties, which no one in Tiumboj would like, so be discreet. Keep your suspicions to yourself, and give no one reason to join with your enemies against you.” She respected him but with a sharp look in her pretty eyes that Riast had never noticed until now. “I’ll be in my apartments, Emperor, if you should have news for me. I’ll keep my own company tonight.”

  Staggered by Aiolenee’s firm assertions, Riast respected her and nodded dumbly. He could see the men and women of his Court milling about, all of them trying to tell someone about how the vision had affected him or her. He knew he had to direct them, or the evening would become a focal point for more than a magical inquiry. He straightened up and stepped in front of the curtain on the performance platform. “Duzeon Erianthee is alive, but she has fainted. No doubt she will recover in time. In order to help her, I and my Councillors will see her safely to her apartments, and then meet in the Jasper Chamber to try to grasp what took place here tonight, I ask that each of you returns to his or her rooms and immediately writes a full account of the evening as you witnessed it. Do not speak to one another concerning this event. Tell only what you saw and heard. Leave nothing out. Add nothing. When all your reports are compared, the Duzeon should be able to evaluate the importance of the manifestation we all saw and heard.” He offered a general respect, and stood aside as Kloveon ran into the Reception Hall, two Imperial Guards close behind him. “And you, Mirkal. Come here. I understand you know what to do to help her.”

  “I hope so, Emperor,” Kloveon answered as he gathe
red Erianthee into his arms and carried her out of the Reception Hall, trailed by the Emperor and his mother.

  * * *

  The east-facing window was growing pale with the first light of dawn, the fire had burned down to embers, and Rygnee had fallen asleep in the chair by the wardrobe. Only Kloveon remained awake, sitting on the side of Erianthee’s bed, her hand in his, while he waited for her long swoon to end. For several hours Kloveon had spoken to her, hoping the sound of his voice would awaken her, but now he was content to wait for her to decide when she would return to the world. Most of the Castle around them was silent, although the first clarion from the rubble of the main gate had sounded as the full moon had dipped below the mountain range of the western horizon. A faint aroma of baking bread floated on the early morning air, a reminder that many were awake in the Castle already, and that Erianthee was not the sole concern of its occupants.

  Finally Erianthee stirred, giving a little stretch, yawning, and blinking slowly as she looked around. “How . . . ”

  ”I brought you here,” Kloveon said, tightening his grip on her hand. “I wouldn’t let them turn you over to the magicians or even to a physician.” His smile was painful to see.

  “What day is it?” A faint line deepened between her brows. She still felt as if she were floating. The sensation wasn’t entirely pleasant.

  “The morning after your Shadowshow,” he said.

  “The third night of the full moon is . . . “

  ”Tonight,” Kloveon said, wanting to reassure her. “You slept like a stone, but haven’t lost a day.”

  “That’s a relief – sometimes when the visions overwhelm me, I sleep for a night and a day and a night.” Erianthee took a long breath. “Was it . . . successful?” She noticed she was still dressed for Court in her elaborate serinel, although her Duzeon’s coronet had been removed.