you do that?” Talan stabbed a fork in the direction of the little fishes gnawing at the dead face. “How can they survive in there?”
Nestor smiled and stroked his black beard. “Magic, my lord.”
“But he’s pickled. And no living thing can survive in that liquid.”
“Perhaps,” Nestor said, “they are not alive. Indeed, perhaps they are only illusion. Or can live—thanks to my magic—in such liquid as must kill all else.”
“So are they dead or alive?” Dival asked through a mouthful of roasted meat and scrambled eggs.
Nestor shrugged.
“Can you,” Talan asked, “defy death?”
“I am a Vachyn sorcerer,” Nestor answered. “And life and death are not so much different—perhaps only alternate aspects of existence.”
“Dead’s dead,” Dival grunted. “There’s surely a large difference.”
“Is there?” Nestor turned his saturnine face to the grizzled general. “Shall I show you?”
Dival scowled and shook his head.
The wind had turned as the day aged, and the debris ofAntium blew across the harbor, the air gone grey with the detritus. Dival swilled rich wine around his mouth and spat onto the cobbles.
Talan laughed. “Does the taste of victory offend you, Egor?”
“No, my lord.” Dival shook his head again. “But there are better places to eat.”
“Where?” Talan spread his splendidly armored arms. “We sit in a vanquished town, ready to conquer the land beyond … where better to take our breakfast?”
“In Chorym,” Dival answered.
Talan’s smile faded; his face grew dark. “We shall take Chorym,” he said. “We shall confront the walls, and does Ryadne deny us, then we’ll siege the city and tear it down around her.” He turned to the Vachyn sorcerer. “Eh, Nestor?”
The Vachyn smiled. “Magic shall bring her to heel.”
“And I’ll have her for my bride?”
Nestor said, “Yes, my lord,” and cast a sly glance at Dival. “Can might of arms not give you what you want, then my magicks shall.”
Talan nodded approvingly, then beckoned a servant to wipe his armor where falling ash discolored the gold. He wondered if it stained his hair. Perhaps he should have it washed again, then thought that that was not seemly in a conqueror. No; better to go dirty into battle. He tossed his cutlery aside and rose, signaling the end of the meal.
“We advance! My chariot?”
Two grooms brought up the prancing horses, both stallions, matched for their jet hides. The chariot was all beaten gold, with jagged daggers jutting from each wheel. It bore nine javelins and a jewel-mounted quiver in which stood seventeen silver-headed arrows and a bow of lacquered jet. Ceremoniously, Talan Kedassian settled his golden helmet on his dark-oiled hair. He latched the cheek pieces and took a spear in his hand, raising it dramatically as Nestor clambered in.
“Onward, to Chorym and victory!”
R yadne paced the walls of the inner city, wondering how long it should be before Talan’s army came.
The day was warm, the sun halfway to its zenith. The sky was a pristine blue, save where the darting shapes of swallows punctuated the azure. High on the walls, she could hear their calling; below, she could hear the lowing of cattle and the muted voices of all the folk looking to her for protection, for safety.
Chorym was readied for siege. All those farmers and vintners and herders who’d come into the city were gathered. There was food aplenty. The walls were manned by the army Gailard had brought back; the catapults were prepared, well armed with missiles and balefire, great buckets of water and of oil set ready. She could do no more. Her scrying magic seemed dimmed now, likely fuddled by the workings of Talan’s Vachyn sorcerer. She could not discern the outcome or the time. She only knew it was vital Ellyn be gone, and that Gailard go with her daughter.
Ellyn was Chaldor’s only hope, and without Gailard that hope was lost.
Beyond that she could foresee little, save her
Nestor smiled and stroked his black beard. “Magic, my lord.”
“But he’s pickled. And no living thing can survive in that liquid.”
“Perhaps,” Nestor said, “they are not alive. Indeed, perhaps they are only illusion. Or can live—thanks to my magic—in such liquid as must kill all else.”
“So are they dead or alive?” Dival asked through a mouthful of roasted meat and scrambled eggs.
Nestor shrugged.
“Can you,” Talan asked, “defy death?”
“I am a Vachyn sorcerer,” Nestor answered. “And life and death are not so much different—perhaps only alternate aspects of existence.”
“Dead’s dead,” Dival grunted. “There’s surely a large difference.”
“Is there?” Nestor turned his saturnine face to the grizzled general. “Shall I show you?”
Dival scowled and shook his head.
The wind had turned as the day aged, and the debris ofAntium blew across the harbor, the air gone grey with the detritus. Dival swilled rich wine around his mouth and spat onto the cobbles.
Talan laughed. “Does the taste of victory offend you, Egor?”
“No, my lord.” Dival shook his head again. “But there are better places to eat.”
“Where?” Talan spread his splendidly armored arms. “We sit in a vanquished town, ready to conquer the land beyond … where better to take our breakfast?”
“In Chorym,” Dival answered.
Talan’s smile faded; his face grew dark. “We shall take Chorym,” he said. “We shall confront the walls, and does Ryadne deny us, then we’ll siege the city and tear it down around her.” He turned to the Vachyn sorcerer. “Eh, Nestor?”
The Vachyn smiled. “Magic shall bring her to heel.”
“And I’ll have her for my bride?”
Nestor said, “Yes, my lord,” and cast a sly glance at Dival. “Can might of arms not give you what you want, then my magicks shall.”
Talan nodded approvingly, then beckoned a servant to wipe his armor where falling ash discolored the gold. He wondered if it stained his hair. Perhaps he should have it washed again, then thought that that was not seemly in a conqueror. No; better to go dirty into battle. He tossed his cutlery aside and rose, signaling the end of the meal.
“We advance! My chariot?”
Two grooms brought up the prancing horses, both stallions, matched for their jet hides. The chariot was all beaten gold, with jagged daggers jutting from each wheel. It bore nine javelins and a jewel-mounted quiver in which stood seventeen silver-headed arrows and a bow of lacquered jet. Ceremoniously, Talan Kedassian settled his golden helmet on his dark-oiled hair. He latched the cheek pieces and took a spear in his hand, raising it dramatically as Nestor clambered in.
“Onward, to Chorym and victory!”
R yadne paced the walls of the inner city, wondering how long it should be before Talan’s army came.
The day was warm, the sun halfway to its zenith. The sky was a pristine blue, save where the darting shapes of swallows punctuated the azure. High on the walls, she could hear their calling; below, she could hear the lowing of cattle and the muted voices of all the folk looking to her for protection, for safety.
Chorym was readied for siege. All those farmers and vintners and herders who’d come into the city were gathered. There was food aplenty. The walls were manned by the army Gailard had brought back; the catapults were prepared, well armed with missiles and balefire, great buckets of water and of oil set ready. She could do no more. Her scrying magic seemed dimmed now, likely fuddled by the workings of Talan’s Vachyn sorcerer. She could not discern the outcome or the time. She only knew it was vital Ellyn be gone, and that Gailard go with her daughter.
Ellyn was Chaldor’s only hope, and without Gailard that hope was lost.
Beyond that she could foresee little, save her
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