The Lesser Kindred (ttolk-2)

  We worried about Vilkas, Aral and I. In a college full of intense young men, Vil was unique. He was fond of drink and could usually hold it well, but Aral told me that one time, in his cups, he had let slip his defences, just once, just for a moment. It had left her shaking. She had not needed her corona or even simple Healer's sight to see what it was Vil was defending against. It was not that he was keeping the rest of the world out. He was defending the world from that which lived inside him. It terrified him, exhausted him, spurred him to learn and to control and to live life as full as he could, for he was convinced that he would never see thirty winters.

  I for one was determined that he should live to be ninety, if only to prove him wrong.

  Aral felt the same way, but lately for very different reasons. I knew the signs. She was young and passionate and spent most of her time with Vilkas, taking risks, working with their shared power. No wonder she fell in love with him. His complex intensity, which he shared only with her, must have been completely intoxicating for her, and their shared work was all their lives. It was hopeless, worse than, hopeless from the outset and even Aral knew it, but love, like weeds, grows where it will, and the mind has very little say in the matter.

  I was their one friend, being just that bit older, and both together and on their own they came to me when they needed someone to talk to. I enjoyed their friendship, in fact I was honoured by it. When I realised the awful depth of the hole Aral was digging for herself I simply decided that come what may I would be there to help her out when she finally fell in, for so she would one day, and I would not leave her to be alone when that happened.

  Of course, the fact mat I was deeply in love with her myself might have had something to do with it.

  "What in the world are you thinking of, Will?" said Aral, smiling and handing me a cup of chelan. "You're miles away."

  "Quite right, lass. I beg your pardon." I shook myself. "So," I said, sipping the hot chelan and enjoying the simple feel of the warmth in my throat. "Magistra Erthik has approved your activities, has she?" I smiled. "Somehow I find that hard to believe."

  Vilkas lifted a corner of his mouth and Aral laughed. "Right as ever, Will," she said. "Vil and I only told her that we were going to try working together on a healing or two. Turns out that's her dearest cause."

  "Indeed. And how long ago did you two first manage to work together?" I asked. I knew them well, these two. They would not lie, not outright.

  Vilkas turned to Aral. "End of last summer?"

  "Aye. Before harvest, in any case. Perhaps two moons after the solstice?"

  "Sounds right."

  Aral turned to me. "In any case, I can't believe you've come here simply to pass the time of a winter's day."

  "I might as well. There's precious little to do in the garden this time of year, and my few simples are well stocked." That made me smile. A college of mages, the best healers in the world, and there was still a demand for the teas that would ease a sore throat, or the warming grease that kept old bones from seizing up in the frosty weather. More serious things were treated every day, but the abiding curses of humanity still included growing old and catching colds in the winter, and there was nothing any Healer had ever found that could slow down the one or hasten the cure for the other.

  "You know, if either of you were wealthy I'd be well off forever from the blackmail. If Magister Berys ever found out what you were doing you'd be tossed out of the nearest window so fast you'd hit the ground before the glass did."

  Aral instantly looked sombre. Vilkas snorted. "I'm not so sure. I swear, Will, I have caught traces of things in this college that should not be here, and the nearer you come to Magister Berys the thicker the smell. And have you noticed that he seems to have been reversing time lately?" Vil was now as serious as Aral. "It's true, Will, I swear it. I didn't know anyone could do that, demon master or not. He doesn't look much changed in passing, but the last time I saw him I swear he had tried to make himself look old. He stood straighter than I've ever seen him, there were traces of players' paint on his jaw and his hands no longer have wrinkled skin or age spots. There is something very, very wrong about Magister Berys."

  Berys

  It has been a day for news. I have just had word of Gorlak, followed not an hour later by news, at last, of the fate of the mercenaries I sent after Marik's daughter.

  Ah, Gorlak. My apprentice, my assistant in conquest. The King of the East Mountains, with a large and powerful army, a brutish son, a thirst for ever greater power and a weakness for flattery. He had come to my hand willingly when I sought material assistance in my aim, for why use demons when there are men who will fight among themselves instead? Gorlak's was the only line of the Kings of Kolmar untouched by disaster, for only Gorlak had agreed to wage war on the other three as my proxy. I would leave him untouched, as I had not left the others; I would assist him as I could with information, silver and provisions, and he would conquer the other three Kingdoms for me.

  Why should any man do so? For power, of course. I have no heir nor ever will, and Gorlak knows it. I have even sworn that should such a one be born he might kill it with impunity. No, I have promised Gorlak the thrones of the Four Kingdoms when I am done with them. And I am an old man, am I not? How long would he be forced to wait—ten years, perhaps fifteen?

  I may have forgotten to tell him of my experiment with lansip, that was restoring my youth. Ah, well. I am sometimes forgetful. Doubtless he will learn of it in time.

  For the moment, however, I knew that some weeks since he had set a muster for the northwest border of his Kingdom of the East, so very, very close to Eynhallow, the capital of the North Kingdom. It is well known that it would be insane to attack Eynhallow in winter, so of course the Northerners were completely unprepared.

  I had already heard, through word passed by my sources in Marik's Merchant House of Gundar throughout Kolmar, that Gorlak had fallen with no preamble upon the fortified city of Eynhallow. King Karrick for all his age was no dotard, even taken unawares, and it took Gorlak nearly a full moon to take the city, but it is taken. It is mine now. Ancient Karrick, cut down in battle, was buried with honour in the chapel of his ancestors. It cost Gorlak nothing, and it kept the populace from rising against him.

  One accomplished, two to follow.

  Gorlak is no fool. He immediately fortified Eynhallow with his own men, and when the assembled army of the North, under Karrick's surviving generals, came upon him, he was ready for them. They were badly prepared and far fewer than they should have been. After only one more moon he has subdued the North and managed to keep word of it from reaching beyond the borders, for the most part.

  However, a spy of the Silent Service has managed to find out this very day, as swiftly as the news has reached me, and it is known now to those who can pay for the information.

  I am not overly concerned. It will be a good first test— what will happen to Gorlak, now that he has taken such a desperate and irreversible chance? If he survives until spring, the next step in the plan is Ilsa. It is a kingdom of farmers, sparsely populated, and unlike Karrick, King Ter-shet can barely remember his own name. The army of Ilsa, such as it is, has not been mustered for ten years. Those few with some claim to the throne have been hovering like carrion birds for years now, doing nothing. If they are cut down at the same time as Tershet, who will mourn? Not the people. The people don't give a fart who the king is, as long as the taxes are low and life goes on much as normal.

  So much for Gorlak. He has done well and I am pleased. Several large boxes of lansip leaves are on their way to him, guerdon for his good work. It may not seem much, but if you assume that the old man you are secretly fighting for is going to leave all to you, it would be enough.

  Gorlak, as I have said, does not know that I am now physically no more than thirty years of age. I have stopped taking the lansip essence, for having lost more than half my years I am well enough content. No more stiff joints, no more failing eyesight and diminished hea
ring, no more aches and pains to plague me. No more, no more of those times when the glass showed Death looming over my shoulder, far too near.

  As for the mercenaries, I had word early from those I sent north, to the Sulkith Hills between Verfaren and Elimar: they found something curious but it was not what I sought. The folk in the villages reported seeing far more of the little useless dragons about the place than ever before. Dragons are not all that unusual, though they tend to be shy of contact with men. Try as I might, however, I cannot see how they, the small, common dragons, might be connected with the Kantrishakrim. It is said in some of the oldest histories that far back in time they were one people—it is possible, I suppose, in the same way that the Rakshasa came originally from one kind. The Rikti said "Kantrishakrim and not"—I can only assume that the stupid thing mistook a large number of the little dragons for one of its larger cousins. Therefore Lanen must have been protected by the other "not Kantrishakrim" in northern Ilsa. In proof thereof I have had no word from those I sent to that place until this morning. It seems that only one of those who were in my pay survived. He left the others before they were killed. That must be only the second clever thing he has ever done, for the fool only bothered to send me word written by a public scribe and sent by the Long Riders, and even that was done many se'en-nights after he must have known the fate of his comrades.

  The Long Riders are swifter than normal travel, but I had paid the leader to send word far more swiftly by means of a device I had given him. It must have died with him.

  The only other clever thing the survivor has ever done was not to sign a name to his missive, nor ever to touch it himself. I cannot trace him. Alas.

  IX Life, Death and Fire

  Maikel

  A brief knock at the study door and Durstan came in without waiting. "Magister, your patient is awake and in distress."

  Berys seemed unmoved. "Can you not assist him?"

  "I will come, Durstan," I replied. "No need to bother the Magister. He has spent enough of his precious time with me already." I bowed to Berys and turned to leave, but he laughed and came around the desk to take me by the arm.

  "Ah, Maikel, your dedication does you credit, but it is no trouble. I will come with you. Surely together we can put Marik at his ease."

  "Quickly, please, gentlemen," said Durstan, leading the way at a trot.

  When we arrived it was to an all-too-familiar scene and my heart grew leaden. Marik was sat up at the head of the bed, his back pressed against the carven headboard and bis bony shoulders shaking despite the heaps of blankets and furs that covered him. The look of blank terror in his eyes was one I had hoped never to see again. My worst fears were dispelled in the instant, though, for however deep his fear he retained his fragile hold on sanity. "Maikel, help me!" he cried when he saw me. I was deeply grateful that he had called upon me and not Berys. "It's back, it's come back."

  I strode to the bedside, summoning my corona, and put a hand on his shoulder. His hand reached out for me and gripped my arm like a talon.

  "What is back, my lord? Are you in pain?" I asked, gently sending my healing power into him.

  He shuddered and relaxed enough to breathe. I kept up the flow of healing, trying to soothe his panic, and in a moment he turned to me. Ah, well, I thought, at least the terror in his eyes is focussed now.

  "No, no, not pain, it's the voices." He let go my arm and grasped his hair in both hands. "I'm hearing those damned voices again. Make them stop!"

  Berys sat on the bed on the other side of my master and spoke quietly. "What are they saying, Marik? Can you make out speech?"

  I started. Certainly this was a novel approach. It had never occurred to me that the voices might be saying something real.

  "But there are so many!" he wailed.

  "Try to choose one, any one, just a single voice, and listen to it alone. Can you do that?"

  Marik concentrated. I admired him even then, able to think when he was so frightened. I am a creature of loyalty, you see. It can be a terrible handicap.

  "There are two that are louder—the rest are only like whispers in another country."

  "Choose one of those two, then," said Berys calmly. "Concentrate. What is it saying?"

  He closed his eyes, frowning. "Something about... recovering ... alas for the wound that will not heal—" He opened his eyes. "The two loud voices have gone. What in the Hells am I hearing, Berys?"

  "I do not know. Listen longer and perhaps we will learn. Can you hear anything yet?"

  "Wait!" interrupted my master. He was showing genuine interest for the first time in many months. I could not help but be pleased. "There's only one now, but it's stronger. 'Did you learn much from the—summoning,' I think—it's stopped, but I think it's waiting for an answer—yes! 'I answer to both, Kedra, Lanen frequently calls me Akor and does not even realise'—Hellsfire, Berys!" yelled Marik, and Berys and I jumped. My master's eyes were open and clear and his voice was strong, even though it was shaking with emotion. "Hellsfire, it said Akor! Lanen and Akor! Someone who knows Lanen is talking to that damned silver dragon that almost killed me! I'd have sworn it was dead!"

  "Listen! Tell me!" commanded Berys.

  Marik, still shaking with fury, closed his eyes again. "It's talking to someone called Kedra—'it would not astound me, the Kantri on Kolmar again, it would be a wonder.' Now it's stopped—wait—'I never thought they would be ... this is a vast land. We forget how'—something—'Kolmar is ... those who do not seek out the company of the Gedri need never endure it.' Now it's gone quiet—wait—I will tell Lanen when she wakes—my head hurts'—no, it's over, it's gone."

  Marik sat back, shattered, astounded, but no more astounded than I was. Berys, once the first shock was over, appeared calm, but I would swear he was as amazed as we were.

  "Be at peace, my friend," he said to my master. "I fear you are overtired. I will prepare a sleeping draught for you." He turned then to me. "My thanks, Healer Maikel, but Marik and I will pursue this on our own. It is late, and I think we have all had enough excitement for this night. Go you to your rest, my friend. I will tell you of it in the morning."

  I was about to object when I realised that there was a nimbus around Berys. The faintest of hints, but he was calling his power to him. I had no wish to be struck down again and to waken once more as his willing slave. I bowed. "I trust to your greater knowledge, Magister, and to the strength of your gift. I give ye good night, my lords."

  I trotted off, the obedient servant, and as soon as I was certain I was not observed I rushed back to my own chambers. I am not a vain man and had not for several months gazed into a mirror longer than it took to shave, but now I stared intently at myself, at my eyes.

  There was nothing to see. If I had had a glamour cast upon me my eyes would be dimmed, that I might see only what I should. A glamour cast by a lesser Mage would last a few days at most. Berys's had been in place for nearly two months.

  That was not possible. He would have to have renewed it several times, no matter how strong he was.

  And why not? I thought to myself bitterly. I had slept in the same shelter as he ever since the deep winter, he could have drugged me or—yes, if he had no principles he could have cast me into the sleep all Healers use for desperately wounded patients, and then sent the glamour upon me like any hedge wizard, any night he chose, as often as he chose. Demons made all such work much simpler.

  Glamours are the work of the Rakshi, not of Healers.

  Goddess. That smell.

  My poor master. I could do nothing to save him from Berys. I was simply not strong enough. And his daughter, that valiant lady I had come to know on the return from the Dragon Isle—what had she to do with all of this?

  I stopped in midstep. Sweet Lady. The voices Marik was hearing were real. Who was he listening to? I cursed to myself as I realised I was still too weak, too alone, and I returned to what I was doing. That poor girl, caught up again in Berys's machinations. My only ray of hope was tha
t the dragon, Akor, had been mentioned. I had seen him bring the Lady Lanen, desperately wounded, back to the camp for healing, and he had threatened Marik with death or worse if he did not take good care of her. The dragon Akor must therefore be in some sense her protector. I could only hope that his protection would be enough to keep her safe.

  My loyalty fought against me even as I drew out my small pack from the chest at the foot of the bed and filled it with my other tunic, my small clothes, the few possessions I had with me. Stay, you must stay with him, you took an oath all those years ago and time does not diminish it, my conscience argued as I prepared to flee.

  My response to this thought was one that had occurred to me often enough. The man I had taken an oath to was dead indeed. His mind was held together with demon-forged nails and I could do nothing about it. Unless I wanted to become a Raksha-slave myself I had to leave now, before Magister Berys dragged me under his influence again.

  All I owned made a small pack indeed. I had little money, but I could always live by my gift. Others did so all their lives. And perhaps I might one day find a way to fight the Archimage of Verfaren, though I held out little hope.

  I did not allow myself to consider what else Berys might have done while I was helpless and under his influence.

  I habitually left my chambers neat and I made certain there was nothing to show that I had left them not intending to return. I slipped out into the night-filled corridors of the College of Mages.

  I made my way swiftly to the main hall, past the open doorway of All Comers, where any who were wounded were welcome, whether they could pay or not. There was no door into that chamber, only an archway, to show the goodwill of the College to all men and the willingness of Healers to serve.