Chartomancy

Chapter Thirty-five

28th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tolwreen, Ixyll

Stripped to the waist and already beginning to sweat, Ciras Dejote entered the circle in the heart of the metal tower. The sword he bore was the one that had come from the Ixyll grave. Over the time he’d been in Tolwreen, between being subjected to a variety of tests or feasts offered in his honor, he’d learned the blade had once belonged to Jogot Yirxan, a Morythian member of the vanyesh who had been a swordsman without equal.

Across from him, a hulking silver behemoth stalked into the circle. He bore a resemblance to a man because he had begun as one. All of his bones had been wrapped in silver, and the metal had been etched with very fine dragons coiling and cavorting along the polished surface. Over the years, as the work was continued, the bones had been split and extended, so now the thing known as Pravak Helos stood eight feet tall and boasted a second set of arms. They linked into the body right at the lower edge of the ribs, and were silvery whiplike appendages that ended in short, sharp dagger blades.

In his upper two hands, Pravak bore swords, each the equal of the blade Ciras carried. His opponent hardly needed the swords since his hands ended in long, very sharp claws and the outer edge of his lower forearm bone had been serrated. When he was fully alive, Pravak had enjoyed stalking and killing Viruk. In reshaping himself, he’d become more than their match.

His skull had likewise been coated in inscribed silver, but he wore a mask that resembled what he’d looked like in life. The fullness of his face, as well as the wild tangle of filaments that danced from a warrior knot at the back of his head, let Ciras imagine what he must have been when mortal. The fact that he had hunted Viruk did layer muscle into those bones, painting a picture of a fighter who relied on power more than speed.

And he has the advantage here again. Ciras bowed deeply and held it for a respectful time. His foe did the same, then set himself. He adopted the first Scorpion form, with both swords up and back, but the two tentacles darted forward, promising punishment for a rash attack.

Ciras drew the sword and scabbard from his sash and bared the blade. He kept the scabbard in his left hand. His foe’s stance offered him two easy choices for offense, and one for defense, but he really found himself facing two foes. Granted, they were joined at the hip and would coordinate their attacks, but he had to watch out for twice as much as he would with one opponent.

Then again, there is one set of legs, so there is a weakness. Ciras smiled, though he was truly unable to tell if that insight had come from his own mind, or through his connection with the vanyesh blade. He had a sense of having faced Pravak Helos before and having beaten him. That meant Pravak would be looking for revenge. He’ll be dwelling on the last time we fought.

Pravak took a step forward and Ciras noticed another weakness. His foe had a high center of gravity, so any lunges would overextend him. He would have to recover, but just how fast he could remained to be seen.

That is knowledge I require.

Ciras took one deep breath, then puffed it out quickly. He dropped into Dragon fourth and advanced quickly, his scabbard high and blade low. He twisted away from a slash by the left whip, then parried a sword cut high. He darted past on the left, then leaped back. Pravak’s right sword whistled down on a diagonal cut that struck sparks from the marble floor.

Ciras took one step forward, then whirled. He presented his back to his enemy for a heartbeat, then snapped the scabbard up and smashed Pravak in the face. The right tentacle whipped in, seeking to entangle Ciras, but the Tirati ducked. The tentacle wrapped itself around Pravak’s spine and, as Ciras spun away to the right, he brought his sword up and severed the slender cable.

The tentacle uncoiled and slithered down through Pravak’s pelvis to the ground. The lumbering behemoth turned to the right, but Ciras had already stepped back out of range of the return slash. He continued to move to his own left, keeping the second whip well away from him. He parried when pressed, slipped away when he could, and kept his enemy moving.

With a flesh-and-blood foe-especially one who would have been bleeding from having lost the tentacle-the strategy of avoidance would have proven very effective. But the creature he faced was not flesh and blood, and was drawing sustenance from the world around him. Ciras, on the other hand, was already slick with sweat. He wiped his brow and splashed the ground with a flick of his wrist.

A battle of endurance would only end one way.

Then Pravak did the unexpected. He kicked the tentacle at Ciras. It slithered across the ground and Ciras easily leaped above it. In doing so, however, he froze himself in place. Without a foot on the ground, he could not dodge, and that was the moment Pravak charged. Blades held wide, and the single tentacle extended like a spear, the vanyesh drove forward.

Three attacks. He could parry any two, but the last would get him. Panic shot through him, but Ciras fought it down. Then his right foot touched the ground and without thinking, he acted.

And felt himself awash in the tingling of jaedun.

Ciras dove forward, face-first, feeling a sting as the tentacle’s blade scored the flesh over his right shoulder and buttock. He landed on his chest and slid forward, then stabbed both arms out. The sword and scabbard each sank between the large and small shinbones. Drawing his legs in and then shooting them out forward, he slid between Pravak’s legs and past them.

Ciras’ weight twisted the behemoth’s legs, bringing Pravak’s knees together. The scabbard snapped in half, which sent Ciras off to the right. Then the silver filaments binding the shinbone at the ankle parted and Ciras spun away on his rump, sword still in hand.

He slammed up against the foot-high rim of the circle and almost made it to his feet before Pravak crashed down at its heart. Swords bounced free of hands and Ciras batted one out of the circle as he darted back in. Raising his sword over his fallen foe, he stroked the blade downward and slashed through the warrior’s knot.

With it went the strength in Pravak’s limbs.

Ciras stepped back and bowed to his enemy. He then turned and bowed to the others seated in the small amphitheater where they had battled. Though most of them remained shrouded in shadow, he saw a few shapes he recognized either as hosts at meals, or opponents he’d already defeated.

A low laughter ran from Pravak’s throat. “Have I not said he is Yirxan reborn? A brother has returned. It is an omen of the future.”

One of Tolwreen’s ruling council-a diminutive shape hidden in deep folds of a thick brown robe-bowed toward the combatants. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed through the Nine Trials. You have proven yourself worthy. Tonight you shall be initiated in the final mysteries of Tolwreen.”

Ciras bowed and started toward the edge of the circle, but the counselor called out. “Wait.”

The Tirati did as bidden and froze in place. The counselor raised his arms and though the robe’s sleeve slipped back, Ciras could see no hands or forearms. Still, a green nimbus gathered around where hands should have been. It formed into a green ball, which expanded as it drifted toward the circle. When it reached man height it bounced along on the ground like a bubble. He wondered if it would make it over the circle lip, but it did so without any difficulty. The moment it touched down in the circle, it expanded and fused with it, becoming a huge hemisphere that would have towered over Pravak had the creature been able to stand.

The air thickened within the bowl, and Ciras felt as if the entire weight of the mountain were pressing in on him. He couldn’t breathe, which ignited fire in his lungs. That fiery sensation flooded into his back, along the line of his cut. He could feel it mending, then the fire died. In its place came the itch of jaedun, like the familiar itch of a healing cut. The faster he recognized it, the easier he could invoke it.

In this fight he’d not consciously done that, but his panic had opened the way to jaedun. He’d known from Moraven Tolo that discipline would lead him to that path, but the utter lack of it had truly opened the new doorway. What he had done stood outside discipline, and yet magic had served him.

He would have allowed himself to keep thinking that, save for running over that last series of moves in his mind. While what he had done was of no single discipline, it was in keeping with all of them. The Nine Forms had been shaped to pit advantage against weakness. They demanded control of his body, a sense of balance, of speed and power, all mixed to avoid the enemies’ cuts while delivering maximum damage. He had recognized his own weakness, and had acted to avoid the enemy while exploiting his weakness.

I doubt what I did will ever enter a form, but it did work; just as refusing to show the bandit a form he recognized served to defeat him. Perhaps the route to jaedun lay in recognition of the principles underlying all the disciplines.

The green globe evaporated and Pravak, with his warrior knot mended, sat up. He snapped his left ankle back together and wrapped the severed tentacle around it to hold it in place. He then stood and limped over to Ciras. The metal mask creaked as the grim visage shifted to one more friendly, then solidified that way.

“I almost wish I could feel pain again so I could remember this duel more precisely.” He laughed lightly, then reached a hand back and tugged on his knot. “You needn’t have severed it. I would have surrendered once I was on my back.”

Ciras shook his head. “I would not dishonor you by letting you surrender.”

“You truly are Yirxan reborn. They were wise who let you keep his sword.”

“And I am in their debt.” Ciras bowed. “If you will permit me to leave, I shall clean this blade and then myself.”

“Of course. You and your servant will be summoned in three hours.” Pravak nodded. “Your coming is a good omen.”

Ciras smiled, bowed, then exited the circle. He walked to a small corridor and stopped before a circular opening. From a small square hole in the wall he drew a slender rectangle of a white metal that Borosan had identified as a silver-thaumston alloy, which, to the best of his knowledge, could not be created by anything short of sorcery. As he handled the metal slip, sigils incised themselves on its surface. He recognized them as the designation for his suite, smiled, stepped into a small spherical chamber paneled entirely with silver. He slid the metal key into a narrow slot and thought of the living quarters he had been assigned high in one of the towers. Behind him, a curved metal panel slid down, sealing the sphere, and his flesh tingled as magic washed over him.

Then the panel slid up again, admitting Ciras to the chambers he shared with Borosan. Because he bore a vanyesh sword, the citizens of Tolwreen had accepted him as something special-though exactly what neither he nor Borosan could determine. Every test he’d worked through, which ran the gamut from endurance and intelligence to combat, had ended with promises that he was one step closer to having mysteries revealed to him. And he certainly had been trained, for each opponent he’d faced and defeated became his mentor in preparation for the next test.

Borosan looked up from the table in the middle of the central living chamber and stretched. “You were victorious?”

Ciras nodded. “I wish my master were here. I believe I have found the way to jaedun.”

The inventor smiled. “Very good. It is, isn’t it? I would have expected you to seem happier about it.”

The swordsman nodded, crossing the room to a nook where he stored oil and cleaning cloths. “I have dreamed of this since I first began my training, but it almost seems like an afterthought. The path proves so simple that I think I would have grasped it from the start if someone explained it to me.”

“It could be none of them understand it as you do.” Borosan’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “But that’s not the whole of your discomfort, is it?”

“No.” He sat and began to polish the blade. “I wonder if the instructions and the tests were not meant to push me to jaedun. Your speculation that the filaments leading up to the mountain must be bringing the wild magic down has to be correct. I don’t think any of the vanyesh can survive outside this atmosphere unless they venture out wrapped in thaumston mud.”

“Then it’s good they don’t go far.” Borosan held up one of the keys. Light reflected from its surface, revealing etched letters. “These keys pick up impressions of us, and when we think of a place to go, the magic knows if we are allowed or not. I still don’t know if the balls move, or if we are sent to an identical ball in the location we wish to reach, but that is how we get around. With the special keys, however, the location and permission are etched on them.”

Ciras nodded. “It’s the only way we can get to places we can’t recall in our minds.”

“Right, but here’s the trick.” He let the card in his hand waver back and forth. “Each of my thanatons has a difference engine that I give a simple set of instructions. On this blank, I’ve inscribed far more instructions than a difference engine can deal with. If I replace the engine with a dozen of these cards, even writing big, I can create a creature hundreds of times smarter than they already are.”

The swordsman frowned. “If the vanyesh knew this, they could create thanatons, which could replace the wildmen and might even be capable of complex work.”

“Like building more thanatons.” Borosan set the key down. “Luckily, since I am your servant, I escape notice.”

“Not tonight you won’t.” Ciras wiped the sword clean and rested the blade on the rack. “Tonight all will be revealed to us. Just a couple of hours from now.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Ciras shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to find out.”

An hour before the appointed time, wildmen appeared and helped them dress. They’d brought formal robes of golden silk, trimmed with wide red hems and sashes. Ciras’ had the crest of a sleeping tiger embroidered in red because that had been Jogot Yirxan’s crest, but it was surrounded by a flaming circle in honor of his being from Tirat. Borosan’s robe had the Naleni dragon for decoration, but very small since he was only a servant.

Borosan shook his head, for the sleeves of his robe were easily two feet too long, and the hem was long enough that it had a three-foot train. “No one has worn robes of this style since the Empire fell.”

“They are designed so you must move slowly in them. It makes formal affairs stately, and prevents anyone from rushing forward to kill the Emperor.”

The wildmen also brought with them special keys, etched with sigils neither man could decipher. The two visitors shuffled their way into the sphere, pulled their robes in after them, then inserted their keys into the wall slots. Though neither felt any motion, they exchanged glances. Normally journeys were over in the blink of an eye, but this one took almost a minute.

When the door slid open again, they found themselves in a wide tunnel with a ceiling hidden in darkness. At the far end, they saw another opening glowing a soft gold. They began to walk toward it, and Ciras relished the fact that his robe prevented him from moving too swiftly. His sense of dread grew as he approached their goal.

As they walked along, golden light illuminated alcoves sunk into the walls. Tall statues carved in exquisite detail filled each niche. Each figure’s name burned brightly at the base. They had no idea who these were until one lit up bearing the name Pravak Helos.

“So the mask was him.” Ciras looked up, studying the person he’d defeated. In life Pravak had been big, but had a softness to his features the metal had not conveyed. Ciras could tell he’d always been large, even as a child, and while this stood him in good stead in combat, his size probably also embarrassed him. Ciras had known countless individuals who suffered from the same mind-set and he wondered if Pravak thought he’d lost his battle because he was too big, or moved too awkwardly.

Borosan kept pace with Ciras. “So these were the vanyesh.”

“What they were once. Now, the gods alone know what they are.”

“They don’t look evil.”

“I doubt evil was part of what the sculptor wished to reflect.”

“Good point.”

They continued on until near the end, when the alcove with Jogot Yirxan’s statue in it appeared. The man wore his hair long-nearly as long as Ciras’ master had-and he had a smile that Ciras returned. While they looked nothing alike through the face, their bodies and limbs were proportioned similarly. Not a surprise, then, that his blade comes so easily to my hand.

Borosan pointed toward the statue. “Look at his sword. The sigils on it. Can you read them?”

“I don’t think I can make it out.”

“It seems to read ‘shadow-twin.’ ”

Ciras shook his head. “It means nothing to me.”

“Nor me.”

They continued on in silence, then reached the doorway and stopped. Pravak, likewise shrouded in a robe of gold, stood just inside the doorway. He ushered them in with a nod, then a sheet of gold flowed down behind them. Silently it solidified. Serpentine sigils writhed onto its surface, and it sealed the room.

Ciras’ skin began to crawl, and it was more than the itch of magic. The hall into which they had entered was long and narrow. Seating rose in tiers on either side, and the vanyesh had all assembled there. Each wore a formal robe of gold, embroidered as was appropriate. And Ciras found himself thankful for the oversized robes because he wanted to see as little as he might of these creatures.

Fewer than a hundred filled the available seating, and each of them had lived in Ixyll since the Cataclysm. He’d known that Mystics could live beyond the natural span of a man’s years, but these people had lived beyond even a supernatural span. Those who most closely resembled humans had shrunk and shriveled until flesh clung to them like sun-dried leather. Some were long and lean, as if they were constructs of deadwood, while others had become misshapen, their bodies infantile and their heads huge.

And then there were the inhuman ones. At least Pravak had some pride of workmanship in his form. He’d maintained bilateral symmetry and only used two elements-silver and bone-to create a new body for himself. Ciras had seen gyanrigot in Opaslynoti that had been cobbled together haphazardly and were still works of art compared to some of the vanyesh.

It is a blessing for the world they cannot leave this place.

Before them, at the far end of the hall, towering gold curtains hid that end of the room. At the midway point stood two tables, one large, one small, and Pravak pointed toward them. Ciras advanced to the larger and Borosan, as befitted a servant, took the smaller. Plates laden with fruit and cheese sat at each place, and goblets had been filled with a dark wine that steamed.

Pravak advanced behind them, and when he raised his arms, the gathered vanyesh rose as one. “We have assembled as you have commanded, oh lord. We have with us a brother born again and come home. It is the omen that tells us you have defeated Death, and will be reunited with your faithful servants once again.”

As he lowered his arms, the curtains parted to reveal a blocky throne of immense proportion. The back of it was shaped in a disk with nine stars excised around the edge. Each one had been inscribed with the mark of a god.

Borosan shot him a glance. “It matches the Celestial Throne.”

Ciras nodded. “So then, who is that?”

A golden skeleton had been seated in the throne. A robe embroidered in purple with the Virine bear had been draped over it. The skeleton, unlike some of the skeletal vanyesh, had no life to it. Ciras wondered if that was because it also had no skull.

The vanyesh all bowed deeply, and Pravak’s heavy hands forced Ciras and Borosan to bow as well.

“Give him praise and honor,” the vanyesh intoned. “He is our lord, Prince Nelesquin. His arrival is nigh. The world shall tremble and he shall return all things to right again.”