Loe raamatut: «Shadows of Destiny»
Shadows of Destiny
Rachel Lee
To Holly, for the song of Anahar.
And to Matt, for the courage of the Anari.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Chapter One
“And be ye faithful always, one to the other,” the priestess intoned quietly.
“And be we faithful always, one to the other,” Tom Downey and Sara Deepwell responded.
“The grace of the gods be with you always,” the priestess said. “You are now one before this company, before the gods, in this world, and in every world where you may travel.”
Tom and Sara kissed. Cilla Monabi could feel the radiant glow in her sister Ilduin’s heart, and her own heart shared Sara’s joy. Yet this time of joy would be fleeting. Sara met her eye, just for an instant, and nodded. She, too, knew.
But for tonight, they would celebrate.
The stones of Anahar did not sing in celebration, though Cilla could feel the joy of the gods as she walked through the temple. A precious love was joined, and even in a world fraught with war and the black hatred of Ardred, that precious love was worthy of joy.
The marketplace before the temple was adorned with the trappings of a wedding, for in the wake of the war that had taken so many of their number, the Anari longed for just cause to wear their finest, cook their best, sing and dance beneath the stars. Cilla found Ratha at the edge of the crowd, his iridescent blue-black face impassive, his obsidian eyes unreadable.
“Dance with me, cousin,” she said.
“I cannot,” he replied quietly, almost with shame.
Cilla placed a hand on his strong, muscled, scarred arm. “Look around you, Ratha. The men and women of Monabi Tel are dancing. Giri was their kin, and my own as well.”
“He was my brother,” Ratha said. “We had endured so much together. I am not whole without him.”
They had endured much, Cilla knew. Ratha and Giri Monabi had been betrayed by Cilla’s brother, captured by Bozandari slavers and sold on the block, until Lord Archer Blackcloak had gained their freedom. Their hardships had not ended then, for as they rode with Archer they had found themselves drawn into the lives of warriors. When they had finally returned to Anahar, at the dawn of winter, it had been to kill their betrayer, and then to train and lead the Anari in war.
Ratha had atoned for killing Cilla’s brother, for she had witnessed that act, and her brother’s confession, and pronounced it justice. Such was her right as an Anari priestess and judge. But Ratha had sojourned in the desert to cleanse his soul, and he had returned a different man. Still a warrior, but no longer with a thirst for blood. He had hoped that Giri, too, would find that redemption. Instead, Cilla knew, Ratha had watched as Giri was cut down in the savage battle of the canyon that had destroyed the Bozandari invaders.
And Ratha had not been whole since.
“Dance with me,” she said again, softly, insistently. “Dance with me as Giri would have, with joy in his heart and a jest on his lips. That was your brother’s magic, Ratha. Do not let it die with him.”
He moved as if his limbs were stiff with frost. But he moved. Cilla took his hand and led him to the dance.
Tess Birdsong, too, patiently tried to draw a man to dance. But like Ratha, Archer Blackcloak seemed to find little room for joy in his heart. Guilt weighed upon him like a mantle of lead, and Tess knew it was a guilt neither she nor a wedding could push aside. Yet somehow, she must.
She was no longer the terrified, confused, lost woman who had awakened in a field of blood and death those many months ago. But enlightenment had borne a steep price. Though she had not chosen it, destiny had chosen her, and she was as shackled to its whims as an Anari slave in a Bozandari market.
And still, she did not know who she really was. Amnesia had stolen most of her memory, and while the Temple of Anahar had revealed moments of her past to her, it had failed to fill in all the empty places.
Tonight she had worked to look her finest, her blond hair, longer now than it had been when first she had awakened with a mind as bare as a newborn babe’s, was threaded with blue ribbons and golden trinkets Cilla had loaned her. Her dress, blue rather than the white she usually wore, had been made for her from a fine, glistening fabric found among the spoils of the army they had defeated. Golden ribbon wound it about beneath her breasts, across her middle and around her waist. On her feet she wore fine golden slippers.
Dressed, she thought, like a queen, for a moment of joy that carried the shadow of death.
For death would come. She knew that to the core of her being. Too many had already died and too much evil yet remained.
She avoided touching the walls of the temple. Tonight she needed it to yield no secrets to her, and she feared the stones might do just that.
Outside she sought Archer with her eyes. Something about him remained always apart, even from his closest companions. Hence it was no surprise to find he had stationed himself in shadows at the edge of the square. He leaned against the corner of a rainbow-hued building, one arm folded over a broad chest cased in black fabric. Of all the people present this night, only Archer wore black. He was the quiet mourner at the edge of the celebration, the one who knew better than any of them all that lay ahead.
His gray eyes missed little as he watched the dancers, jugglers and musicians. He even smiled as Tom and Sarah emerged from the temple, wed at last.
But it was a smile that didn’t reach any further than his face.
Feeling a pang for him, Tess made her way through the crowds to his side, and reached for his tanned and battle-scarred hand.
He looked down at her as she gently squeezed his fingers.
“’Tis a fine night for a wedding,” he said.
“Aye, but you look less than joyful. Come, dance with me and allow your heart to lighten for just a brief while.”
“Is yours lightening?”
After a moment, she looked down, away from his perceptive gaze. “We all know what has passed, Archer,” she murmured finally, her words barely audible above the music and laughter. “And we all know what lies ahead.”
“I very much doubt anyone knows what lies ahead. ’Twill be far worse than what we have so far faced.”
“Aye,” Tess nodded. “I have dreams, such dreams….” Her face shadowed, but then she looked at him with a determined smile. “However it may be, and whatever looms ahead, the gods have decreed that we must live. So let us live this night.”
After a moment, he acquiesced and led her into the square to join the other dancers. She had never, to her memory, danced before, but it wasn’t long before Archer had helped her master the simple steps and she was whirling with him in the outer circle of dancers that surrounded an inner circle moving in the opposite direction.
When the feet and body moved to such happy music, it was impossible to remain sad. Before long, Archer smiled and his feet seemed to grow lighter. Tess let go of the pall that always shrouded her heart and let laughter flow freely.
Regardless of what the morrow might bring, life had granted a respite, and she felt it would be wrong, very wrong, not to savor these precious moments of joy.
Topmark Tuzza, the Bozandari commander, could hear the rejoicing in Anahar halfway across the valley where he and his men were imprisoned behind fences, watched by Anari guards. They had been defeated in battle three weeks before by the Anari, and they were still licking their wounds.
The topmark had been invited to the wedding, but had refused the honor. His men were not yet ready for what he was about to ask of them, and he was not about to anger them by attending the wedding as an honored guest. He could not afford to lose his authority over them.
Yet even after all this time, he could still not think of a way to broach the subject. Many of his men, most of his men, thought of the Anari as a slave race. They had set out to conquer a rebellion against the authority of the Bozandar Empire.
How was he to persuade them that there was a greater evil, and a greater cause? That they now must switch allegiance, but yet would not be betraying their own families and people?
Tuzza was no dull man. Sharp wits more than family connections had raised him to the heights. He was related to the emperor, yes. But so were many others. It was only through achievement that Tuzza could stand directly behind his emperor at important events, could offer words of advice directly into his emperor’s ear.
He would be seen as a fool and a traitor when his intent became known. Either one would be enough to make his men turn on him.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the distant sound of reveling, and leaned back in his camp chair, seeking yet again the words that would persuade.
His men, of course, had seen the many healings the Ilduin witches had caused. Many of the more severely wounded had benefited greatly from the Ilduins’ touch…as had he himself. Some had even outright marveled that after a battle so bitterly fought, the Ilduin, who had fought beside the Anari, had been so willing to heal their enemies.
Perhaps that was the place to start. Perhaps he should speak of the Ilduin and the Lord Annuvil, he who was the First Prince of the Firstborn King, long before Bozandari and Anari had ever walked the face of this world. Perhaps he should remind them of the tales of old, and of the nearly forgotten prophecies that foretold such a time as this.
Of course, if he had not himself seen the Ilduin and their powers, had not seen the Lady Tess lead troops into battle, then with one word from her mouth cause the conflict to cease…Tuzza himself might not have believed the dark man who had come to him and said, “I am Annuvil.”
The Firstborn Immortals had vanished so long ago, so many centuries in the past, that it was hard to believe one of them yet survived. Two of them, actually, according to Lord Annuvil.
Yet Tuzza could not deny it. He had seen what he had seen, and he was still alive only because of it.
These times had been foretold. The outcome was unwritten, but the return of the Ilduin and the Firstborn King were writ in more than one prophecy. They were writ on the fabric of every soul, every mountain and stream, every rock and tree, every bird and bear, serpent and snow wolf. They were writ by the gods themselves, and Tuzza knew better than to dispute such a destiny.
His mother had schooled him thus from the time of his birth. His mother and the old Anari woman, each of whom had sat beside his bed and told him stories when he was too ill with fever to rise and run and play. The same two women who had patched his wounds when he fell, ensured that his bedding was clean and that his pillow bore the fresh scent of spring flowers. Looking back, he could hardly remember where his mother left off and the Anari woman had begun, could hardly distinguish which of them had performed which graces in his youth.
They had taught him to respect the old ways, and sometimes—when she was sure no one else could hear—the Anari woman would speak in the Old Tongue. Fragments of words floated into his consciousness, and though he knew not their meaning, he felt once again that sense of wonder, of contact with life, with light, with the gods themselves, which had filled his heart in those bygone days.
But in his childhood that wonder had been bright and beautiful, song and light. It was a dark wonder that now filled him. Fear and grief and a bottomless, aching loss for the men who had died under his command, and the many more who would die in the war to come.
It would be Tuzza who would lead those men—the same men who now sulked sullenly under the eyes of their Anari captors—once again into battle. He would lead them into battle with an Anari host at their sides and a Bozandari host before them.
And more would die at his hand.
Chapter Two
They danced until their bodies were weary, yet their minds did not tire. At last, Archer and Tess slipped away from the revelers and into the quieter night beyond the city of Anahar. Above, the stars looked cold and unforgiving, and beyond the warmth of Anahar’s walls, the wind held a bitter bite.
The unnatural winter, which to the north had left so many to starve and freeze to death, now at long last was reaching the normally warm lands of the Anari. Never had snow been seen in Anahar, but Tess suspected that would soon change.
“His breath still blights the land,” Archer murmured. Lifting his cloak, he drew Tess within its warmth, against his side. “Can you tell yet how many Ilduin he has subverted?”
Tess shook her head, grateful for the warmth Archer shared with her. “Other than the two I have already found, I cannot yet tell for certain.” Her hand lifted to touch the pouch of colored stones that hung around her neck. Each stone belonged to one of the twelve living Ilduin. When she held them in her hands, she could draw on the power of her sisters, or communicate with them. But some yet remained out of reach, beyond her ability to call. Two she was certain belonged to Ilduin who had fallen into Ardred’s clutches. But others remained a mystery to her.
“I am sorry,” she said after a few moments. “If I knew all the other Ilduin, it would be easier. But so far I have met only Cilla and Sara. Some of the others I can reach, while others yet remain untouchable to my mind. It may be that they themselves have not yet discovered their powers.”
“Indeed. Many believe the Ilduin long dead and gone from this world. Why should not some of the Ilduin be among the nonbelievers?”
He sighed. A gust of wind at that moment snatched his cloak and lifted it, blowing its icy breath inside. Tess shivered.
“I fear,” he said presently, “that Ardred must claim more than two of your sisters. This winter he inflicts on us is a sure sign of his growing power.”
“I fear it, too.”
“With the Bozandar Empire lying between us and the lands to the north, it is impossible to learn how many others he and his hive-masters have drawn in. We will need Tuzza’s help to pierce the veil and glean information.”
“I know.”
“A relief army will be leaving Bozandar soon, to come look for Tuzza’s army. There will be a terrible battle. But Tuzza has not yet found a means to convince his men to fight beside the Anari against the greater evil, especially since it may require fighting their brothers-in-arms.”
“It is essential we gain the cooperation of Bozandar.”
“Aye.” He looked down at her, his face unreadable in the starshine. “I would hear any suggestion you might have.”
That was when she realized that he had at last begun to trust her. Always before there had been a sense that he doubted her real purposes. It was a doubt for which she could not blame him. After all, she could remember nothing before the horrific day the past autumn when she had awakened among the slaughtered caravan, knowing not even her own name.
Sometimes she wondered if she should trust herself. At times she had felt the touch of the Enemy, Lord Ardred, like a dark shadow in her mind, seeking, always seeking, something from her. It had been a while, though, since she had felt that chilling, oily touch in her mind, and for that she was grateful.
“I wish I had a suggestion,” she said finally. “I don’t think asking those soldiers to become traitors is going to be easy for anyone, no matter how silver-tongued.”
She felt, rather than saw, his agreeing nod.
“Yet,” he said after a moment, “they will not be traitors, but saviors. Saviors of all men.”
“So go in and tell them who you are. It worked with Tuzza.”
A sigh escaped him, barely heard before it was snatched away by the wind.
“How many will believe that I have lived for so long, hidden among them?”
“I find it hard to believe myself. Has it been as awful as I suspect?”
“It has been a curse. Death would have been welcome countless times. And yet it is a just punishment. My deeds led to the end of the Firstborn. Why should I not wander the world, a stranger among strangers, for the rest of eternity?”
“Not your deeds alone.” She turned to face him, allowing the icy wind to come between them. “Just because you have a conscience does not mean that you alone are responsible. I have looked into the past in my dreams and in the old stories, and what I see is that many were responsible in different ways. Say what you will, Annuvil, the guilt is not yours alone.”
“Mayhap not. What does it matter? I have been preserved for this time, these events. Perhaps if I acquit myself well and do what is expected of me this time, the gods will set me free.”
She tilted her head back to better see him. “You would wish your own end? Are you sure that is a good wish for a man who will lead us in the war against Ardred?”
Surprising her, he chuckled. “There are many ways a man can be set free. Perhaps at last I will be free to be mortal. Perhaps it will be something else. How should I know? The minds of the gods are ever opaque.”
“I am coming to know that well.” She felt a wave of relief at his laughter, though she couldn’t have blamed him for being bitter about his lot. Nor could she imagine how awful these centuries must have been for him.
“It’s a wonder,” she said slowly, “that the years did not drive you mad.”
“Sometimes they did. I am grateful that I have little memory of those times, however. They are blurred in my mind, and all sense of time was lost. I sometimes lived like a beast in the forest, I believe.”
“I’m sorry. Sorry and awed, for I cannot imagine surviving such a thing. How did you make yourself go on?”
“I was promised,” he said slowly. “I was promised that someday my Theriel would be returned to me.”
She stepped back even farther, and ignored the cold wind. For some reason she could not readily name, she felt…hurt. “Who promised you?”
“Elanor. She came to me after…after the destruction. She promised that if I served her well, in the end I would see my wife again. I have clung to that promise.”
“Are you sure you can trust Elanor? Or any of the gods?”
He shook his head. “No. I freely admit I cannot. Their purposes are not ours. But…it is all I have. My heart died with Theriel, and the remaining ember is all that I have left. I must believe.”
“I can see that.” She turned from him, letting his cloak fall away, letting the wind sweep over her and chill her to her very bones. She spread her arms as if to embrace the winter night. A snowflake, such as had never fallen in this valley in the memory of men, drifted down and landed on one of her fingertips.
“I don’t know who I am,” she said slowly, watching the flake melt. “I don’t know where I am from. I have no promises to uphold me. Yet here I am, and I do what I must.”
“Then perhaps your burden is the greater by far.”
She turned suddenly and faced him. “What do they mean when they call me the Weaver?”
“It is said that one day an Ilduin would come who could touch the warp and woof of reality, and bend it to her will.”
“And they think I am that person?”
“You wielded the Weaver’s sword in battle.”
“Anyone could have wielded that sword.”
He shook his head slowly. “Not as you did.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the moment when Tom had placed the sword in her hand and told her what it was. After that, everything had become a great blur. She had little memory of the battle afterward, and knew only what she was told: that she had led a force of men against a flanking attack and had saved the day. That later, with one word, she had caused the battle to instantly still.
A great fear began to tremble in her, colder than the cold that surrounded her. “What does it mean? What is expected of me?”
“I know not.”
“The prophecies. If the Weaver is mentioned in them, there must be some hint, some clue!”
“Have you not realized by now how prophecies are more riddles than foretellings? I cannot tell you what it is you are to do. I cannot tell you how to do it. You must trust, my lady, that when the time comes you will know.”
“There is too much call for trust.”
“I know.” He looked past her down the valley to where the fires burned in the prison compound. “They too must find a way to trust. For trust, I believe, is all that will save us from the wiles of Ardred.”
She turned from him and looked down the valley, too, thinking of the men who must be huddled around those fires, despairing and perhaps even bitter in defeat, a taste that no Bozandari had known before. “Aye,” she said, her heart heavy with dread. “They, too, must trust. And perhaps that will be the most difficult thing of all.”
That night, in her dreams, the white wolf came to her again, as he had twice in reality. He howled, a mournful, spine-tingling sound, then seemed to gesture for her to follow him.
Through the mists of her dream, she slipped after him. As was the way of dreams, she never wondered why she followed, or what the wolf wanted of her. Nor did she feel any fear.
Gradually the mist softened, then faded until she could see the woods through which they traveled. Always the wolf was just ahead of her, pausing in his easy, long-legged lope when necessary to let her catch up.
At last they emerged into a clearing. Above, the sky glistened with a carpet of stars thicker than any she had ever seen. Then, around her, she heard the murmur of voices. She could not make out the words but sensed that she stood in the center of some invisible gathering.
Until now, she had felt nothing, but as she stood there, her discomfort grew, because she felt as if she were being judged by some unseen jury. The wolf remained at her side, but his presence offered scant comfort. She began to think of fleeing from this haunted clearing. At that instant the voices fell silent.
Then a woman stepped out of the shadows, her face concealed by a hood that cast it in darkness.
“Many,” the woman said quietly, “are your sisters who have gone before you. To none of us fell the burden that now befalls you. Yet each of us, in her own way, has prepared your path with promises and prayers. We cannot tell you what is to come, for the gods make a game, and we are bound by their rules. But we will be with you, little sister. If you hear a whisper on the air, listen for our voices. All that lies between is a veil, and that veil can be pierced.”
Before Tess could question her, the woman had vanished back into the shadows. For a second or two, she could hear the quiet murmur of the voice again.
Then she was alone in the clearing with only the white wolf.
He nudged her hand with his cool, damp nose and she blinked.
And gasped. For she no longer stood in the clearing at all, nor was it any longer dark.
Dawn was breaking over the mountains to the east, wreathed in red and pink and orange, the globe of the sun not yet visible.
Nor was she in her bed. She stood halfway between Anahar and the compound housing the Bozandari prisoners of war.
The frigid morning air made her cheeks sting, but she was still surprisingly warm. Looking down at herself, she saw that she had dressed in her fine white woolens and boots, with her cloak about her shoulders. Had she done that in her sleep?
A sound behind her made her swing sharply around, and she gasped as she saw the wolf was still with her.
What was going on? Had she been dreaming? Or had she been awake in some netherworld? Had long-dead Ilduin really spoken to her?
Or was she simply losing her mind?
But then the wolf came toward her and shoved his big, soft head beneath her hand. Instinctively she scratched him behind the ears, and marveled at how silky his coat felt.
She must have been sleepwalking, she thought. Thank goodness she had dressed before setting out from Anahar. Else she would be frozen and dead right now, it was that cold.
She was about to return to the city on the hillside when the wolf tipped back his head and howled. It was a beautiful sound, music unto itself.
And it was answered. Tess felt her scalp prickle as wolves howled back from the awkward, hardy trees that made life for themselves in the green desert that was the Anari lands. The sound was eerie, as eerie as anything she had ever heard. There must have been dozens of them.
But then they emerged from the trees, still howling, a harmony among their voices that reverberated until it sounded as if they numbered in the several dozens. But there were only seven more of them, all as white as the one that stood beneath her hand.
She should have been terrified. She should have fled. She should have tried to call on her powers for protection. Instead she remained rooted to the spot as the wolf pack ran toward her, their yellow eyes bright, mouths relaxed in smiles, as if they were coming home.
When they reached her, their howling stopped and they began to make quiet whimpers and whines as they swirled around her legs, sniffing her as if to learn her. Then, as if by silent order, all seven sat on their haunches and looked up at her.
She spoke, not knowing what else to do. “What do you want?”
The only answer she received was from the pack leader. His head moved from beneath her hand so that he could tug at her robe with his mouth.
He pulled her gently.
Toward the prison compound.
And all the others followed, as if they were tamed beasts at her beck and call. But she knew otherwise, and wondered what it all meant.
Ras Lutte, formerly overmark of the Bozandari army, approached his ruler slowly, as if hoping to avoid notice. He had news to bring, and bring it he must, for such was his duty. But he knew the meaning of the dour visage upon the throne, a face that seemed to bear the weight of the gods themselves upon its features. Lutte was all too familiar with that expression. It had been months, it seemed, since his ruler had borne any other.
Yet the ruler was still an astonishingly beautiful man, fair of complexion, golden of hair, blue of eye. To Lutte and others, it seemed he might even be the spawn of the gods, for never had a man so handsome and charismatic ever been seen before.
Until this brooding had begun.
But at least no one died from these silent broodings.
“My lord,” Lutte finally said, after placing his right fist to his heart and bowing at the waist. “I pray that I disturb thee not, yet the woman has spoken.”
The man on the throne looked up slowly, as if all of his strength were required simply to lift his head. Lutte could not be certain, but he thought he saw tears in his ruler’s eyes. Immediately, Lutte lowered his gaze to the floor. Such things were not to be seen.
“What is it, Overmark?” the ruler asked, each word seeming to wend its way from the bottom of a deep cavern.
“The Weaver summons the wolves, my lord. Soon, the woman says, the Enemy host will march.”
The man’s eyes closed for a moment, then he nodded. “Just as it was foretold.”
Lutte knew little of prophecy and trusted less than he knew. He was loathe even to trust the woman who sat in her room like the shell of a human being, hardly taking even food or drink, her body nearly as desiccated in life as any Lutte had seen in death.
He was a man of science and mathematics, the science and mathematics of war. Born into the Bozandari peerage, trained in the Academy of War, tested in battle, proved in a half-dozen campaigns. His exile after an affair with a topmark’s wife had not changed his nature. It was possible to take the soldier out of the army, but never to take the army out of the soldier. Now he had found another army, and he had taken to the task of training the ragged band of outlaws and exiles into a smoothly functioning fist to be wielded at his will.
But not his will. The will of his ruler. And the will of his ruler was guided by prophecy and the mumblings of the woman. It was, Lutte thought, a shaky foundation upon which to base a campaign. But he had learned loyalty in the academy, and his personal dalliances aside, his professional loyalty was a matter of pride.
He relayed the woman’s words as if they were those of the most accomplished spy, not because he trusted her or her ramblings, but because it was his duty to do so.
“If this is so,” Lutte said, “then our agents in Bozandar must be at their task. Surely Bozandar can crush the slave people and end this rebellion.”
“Bozandar will not be our ally,” the ruler said. “In the end, it will come to us and us alone. It will come to me. For only I can slay my brother.”
Again he is on about his brother, Lutte thought. As if the rest of the world were mere pawns in this sibling rivalry. Lutte had heard the whispers, that his ruler was in fact the second son of the Firstborn King, but he did not believe them. The children of the Firstborn were long dead, if ever they had existed. Lutte needed no ancient good or evil to empower him. The evil of the human heart more than sufficed to afflict the world. And only the good of the human heart could bring it comfort. The rest were tales, legends, myths told to fortify the sheep against the hardness of life, and make the sheep compliant within it.
