The Gods Awaken

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rhodes stared at his mother for a moment. His shock at her announcement that Queen Charize-the true source of Hanadu's strength-was dead gradually subsided as the rest of her words rang through.

The monster Charize was dead. Not so bad by half if the rest of what she had to say was true. But what was this about an alliance? With powerful figures who shared his hatred for Palimak Timura?

Rhodes grinned. "Good news, indeed," he rumbled. He looked about the room. "Where are these wise men? Bring them out so I can greet them properly."

Clayre gestured at the golden tiled pentagram in the center of the spelltable. Rhodes peered at it, as if expecting to see something. But it was empty.

"They can't be summoned so easily," she said. "They want certain assurances. Assurances, I'll warrant, that you'll be glad to grant."

"Anything!" Rhodes breathed with deep feeling. "As long as they'll deliver Timura into my hands."

Clayre stared at him a moment, as if measuring her son's commitment. Finally she said, "I'll need to cast some rather complicated spells. And there are certain sacrifices we'll need to make to appease Charize's ghost. Give me a a week or so-a month at the most-and the bargain can be sealed."

Although he was filled with curiosity, Rhodes didn't question his mother further. Magic made him nervous. It was something he had no talent for, so it was something to be distrusted. One of his secret regrets was that he hadn't inherited his mother's sorcerous abilities. Instead, they'd skipped a generation to favor his oldest child, Jooli.

He'd never liked Jooli. If it had been up to him he'd have drowned her at birth. After all, his first-born should have been a son. A male heir who no one would doubt was the rightful person to succeed him to the throne. Increasing his dislike of his daughter was the early talent she'd shown for things that only a man should have possessed. Strength, speed, skill at arms.

But what had sealed his dislike was the revelation that she was a witch. His mother had informed him of it one day and for a time had tutored the child. All went well for a while and then his mother had reported in great disgust that Jooli had suddenly turned away from her and would have nothing more to do with her grandmother.

Rhodes had chastised his daughter, but although she was quite young she spoke her mind quite plainly.

And she had made it very clear that she had no intention of entering into a spell bargain with Queen Charize, much less help provide the steady stream of sacrificial victims the monster queen had required of Hanadu for time immemorial.

The reasons Rhodes and Clayre hadn't removed Jooli long ago were complicated since they involved the bloody diplomacy Syrapis was known for. Further complicating things was the fact was that Rhodes had found it necessary to not quite withhold his blessing of Jooli as his rightful successor.

This was why he'd ordered her to become a royal hostage to Palimak. And it was his heartfelt desire that when the time came to break his treaty with the Kyranians Jooli would be the very first victim of young Timura's wrath.

His mother impatiently rapped bejeweled fingers on the spelltable, snapping Rhodes out of his reflections.

"Yes, mother?" he asked.

"I didn't summon you," she pointed out, "so I assume you came here for some purpose."

Rhodes nodded and proceeded to tell his mother about what he had seen while spying on the Kyranians.

The enormous coffin bearing Asper's image and the mysterious man who had been carried out of the idol on a stretcher, a man whom all the Kyranians seemed to worship.

Queen Clayre was troubled, frown lines marring her beauty. "This does not bode well," she said. "The coffin was clearly Asper's."

Rhodes frowned. "That's ridiculous," he said. "How could the Kyranians have taken it from Charize?"

"I told you she was dead," Clayre reminded him. "And that Prince Timura was the cause of her death.

Which should give us even greater reason to be especially wary of him. If he could kill Charize, he is even stronger than we feared."

Again, she rapped her rings on the table. "Possibly," she said, "it has something to do with the man you saw them remove from the idol."

Rhodes didn't answer. None of this made sense to him.

"Which means," his mother added, "that this alliance with these … ah … Timura-haters I mentioned, might be a better idea than even I'd imagined. In fact, I now think their offer has everything to do with the appearance of the mysterious person you observed."

Then she sighed, as if suddenly weary. "Leave me, my son," she said. "Let me reflect on this."

She offered a cheek, which Rhodes dutifully kissed and he started for the door.

But just before he left the room a gleam of light caught his attention. He glanced over to the mural just above his mother's spelltable, which was where the glimmer had come from.

The mural was an idealized painting of Hanadu during ancient times when, legend said, Lord Asper had lived in Syrapis. There was the castle, a bit smaller, not quite so imposing as the fortifications Rhodes had built. In the foreground, riding down the winding road leading out of the castle was a troop of soldiers, wearing archaic armor. At their head was the king-a handsome man of middle age. He was flanked by women warriors-his daughters the scholars said.

Rhodes had always admired the pictures of the king's daughters. Strong, fierce, all remarkably beautiful.

Many times he'd dreamed of bedding those warrior princesses. Particularly the ebony-skinned woman who rode next to the king on a stunning black mare. The two of them made a fiery, intriguing pair, so full of life they practically burst out of the mural.

He'd studied that mural many times over the years, so it came as a huge surprise to him that there was a detail present he apparently hadn't noticed before.

Just ahead of the column was a fabulous white stallion. Rearing up before the black mare and her rider.

Hooves striking painted sparks in the air.

He peered closer, wondering why he hadn't seen that magnificent horse before. Something in the back of his mind also wondered if those sparks had been animated a second ago. The reason why his attention had been drawn to the familiar mural.

"Is there something else?" his mother asked.

He almost spoke. But then, as he gazed at the mural it came to him that maybe he hadn't noticed the stallion before because he had always been so intent on the king's shapely daughters.

This was not something a son discussed with his mother. "No," he said. "There's nothing more."

"Very well," she said. "I'll call for you when I know more about our new allies."

King Rhodes nodded and exited the room.

It was a strange homecoming for Safar. He was barely conscious when he arrived at New Kyrania, the mountaintop home his family and friends had carved out in their wars with the Syrapians.

Of this time he had only vague recollections of bells and pipes and songs sung in praise of someone the villagers must have loved dearly or there wouldn't have been such a grand celebration. He didn't connect that someone with himself.

He had vague impressions of his mother, Myrna, his father, Khadji, and all his sisters gathered about his bed. In the background was the tall figure of a strange person who reminded him of Palimak but who was too old and self-possessed to be the boy he remembered.

Also in this dream-for that was what he thought it was-stood Leiria. Beautiful as always. Strong and steady in her armor. A rock for his homecoming-if that was what this dream was about. And in that dream Leiria stepped through the throng and kissed him-and ah, what a kiss it was. And he felt such regret for steeling himself against that love before.

And in this odd otherworld of Safar's consciousness, he remembered their meeting. A warrior woman, one of Iraj's personal bodyguards, given to him by his former friend. He recalled his guilt about that act-which had required his acceptance. An even greater guilt, since it was against all Kyranian principles and teachings that one human being could be given to another. And he remembered their first days of lovemaking, when he was mourning Methydia's death and he had used her to soothe his grief.

What a sin that had been. Even though she'd whispered to him during their embraces that she didn't mind if he was thinking of another.

Regret upon regret as he recalled what a friend she had become. Sacrificing everything to save him from Iraj. Not once displaying jealousy about Methydia, nor especially about Nerisa, the little Walarian thief who had grown into the love of his life.

What had been wrong with him? Why hadn't he realized that Leiria was above all others?

Such a sin. Such a sin. So extreme the gods would never forgive him.

And then he thought, but the gods are dead!

And that was followed by-Every woman I've ever loved suffered tragically for knowing me.

I'm not worthy.

This is why I've been condemned to dance eternally to the deadly music of Hadin.

And then he feared that at any moment he would suddenly hear the harvest drums resume their throbbing and once again the wild spellsong would compel him to dance, dance, dance. Palms slapping naked chest. Bare feet pounding the sand. On and on while a thousand others danced beside him. The beautiful harvest queen leading them on.

And the volcano ready to erupt!

But after a while, when nothing happened, he dared to wonder if somehow the cycle had been broken.

Then one day the stranger who looked like Palimak bent over Safar, pressing cool cloths on his forehead. The smell of healing incense tickling his nose. The stranger whispered words of affection, asking if there was anything he required.

He tried to speak, but his lips were numb. There was something very important he needed to say. But the words wouldn't come.

The stranger said, "What is it, father? What do you require?"

Maybe this was Palimak. Although it seemed unlikely, because the Palimak he remembered had been quite small. But the terrible yearning in his heart pushed him past these doubts.

So he answered, "Khysmet! Where is Khysmet?"

And he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The Council of Elders had not met for several years. In fact, the last time they'd been together had been in Esmir when Safar had cajoled them into entering the Blacklands. For a long time, dire circumstances-such as a dead run to escape Iraj Protarus-had prevented such a gathering of Kyrania's most prominent men.

An attempt had been made to bring that traditional ruling body together after they'd landed on Syrapis, but Palimak had blocked it. A youthful witness to their endless, and, in his view, foolish debates, he'd decided to dispense with that form of village government the first time the question had arisen.

Supported by Coralean, that canny old caravan master, as well as by Leiria and the other members of the Kyranian army, he'd not so gently pushed them aside. Forming instead a loose counsel of advisers, which included Biner, Arlain and the other members of the circus troupe.

Constant warfare, plus an unbroken string of victories, had kept the Elders quiet. These men-who'd once tried to exile Safar and Palimak-held little standing with the other villagers. And those who had occasionally dared to contest Palimak's will had found themselves in a very small minority.

Once in a great while Palimak had even used the force of magic to compel the Elders to obey his commands. Actually, it wasn't so much obedience as a sudden, magically induced desire on their part to follow where he led.

At first he'd been ashamed of these tricks. His father had drummed into him the value of village democracy, where all views were accounted for and compromises made. On the other hand, when he and Safar had separated in Caluz, another message had been delivered. It was up to Palimak, his father had said, to lead the Kyranians to safety while he remained behind to confront Iraj.

And when Palimak had pleadingly asked what he should do if they refused, Safar had answered harshly,

"Then make them!"

So that was what he had done, from that moment on the Esmirian shores of the Great Sea when they had all demanded to wait for Safar's return. And Palimak, believing his father dead, had cast the greatest spell of his young life, forcing them to wait no longer and flee to Syrapis.

Since then his guilt had subsided. Now he had become accustomed to being their prince. Practically a king-although never in the history of Kyrania had its people been ruled by royalty. So when Foron, the chief of the Elders, had come to him demanding a meeting, he'd been quite irritated. Who needed these stupid old men?

But what could he do when even his grandfather, Khadji, supported Foron's request?

And so three days after they'd borne the ailing Safar to New Kyrania, Palimak convened the Council of Elders to let them have their say.

He'd expected only long windy speeches praising their native son Safar Timura and welcoming his return to the bosom of his people. Perhaps a declaration of a special feast day to celebrate it.

But that was not how it had turned out.

Masura, leader of the loyal opposition, spoke first. "I'm a blunt man," he said, "so I won't shilly-shally around the point. Which is this: The miraculous return of our beloved Safar Timura-your stepfather

– proves what I have always suspected. That you have been lying to us all along!"

The young man made note of the way Masura underscored Palimak's questionable status as Safar's adopted son. He reflected briefly on Masura's hypocrisy; this man had not only opposed Safar but had been the leader of the group trying to exile him.

"I really think we should use words that aren't so incendiary," Foron said, in minor admonishment.

"Accusations of lying are a bit strong, if you ask me."

Palimak said nothing, only raising an eyebrow at Foron's weak defense. In the past he'd always been a strong supporter of the Timuras and certainly no friend of Masura.

Then Foron turned his gaze on Palimak. "However, in Masura's defense," he said, "I must admit there is understandable concern about certain things."

"Such as?" Palimak asked.

"You told us he was dead!" Masura accused, voice shaking with emotion. "You convinced us to abandon him in Esmir. Lies! All lies, which has now been proven!"

Palimak glanced at Khadji, expecting some support from his grandfather. To his dismay, he saw the old man nod in sad agreement.

"It's true, my grandson," Khadji said. "We all protested. But you insisted."

"And that's another thing," Masura broke in. "Why was it that a boy was able to insist on anything? And why did we just nod our heads and shuffle on board the ships, leaving our beloved Safar behind?"

"You didn't leave him behind," Palimak pointed out. "We found him here in Syrapis. I found him, actually.

So you have no point."

"It was the work of some devil," Masura insisted. "I just know it was. How else do you explain your …

unusual … influence over us. You wave a hand and everyone does your bidding."

He leaned closer, face dramatically lit by the traditional council fire. "Perhaps I spoke in error," he said, a wide sneer greasing his face. "Maybe it wasn't some devil's work-but a demon's work!"

He glanced around at the others, smiling grimly when he saw they had taken his point-Palimak's status as a half-breed.

"I say there should be an investigation," he said. "A special committee appointed by the Council of Elders to decide once and for all if this … this … demon's spawn … has possessed us. To make us do terrible things, such as abandon our dear friend, Safar Timura."

"That's not unreasonable," Foron agreed. "Eliminating certain insulting terms, of course. Such as a€?demon's spawn.a€™ Palimak is one of us, despite his background. We should treat him as such."

"He's a good boy," Khadji said. "He's always been a good boy. I can attest to that." The he sighed.

"However, there are certain questions I have myself."

He glanced at Palimak. "No offense, my boy." Then back to the council. "I'll support an investigation-as long as it's not biased, of course."

The others murmured … of course, of course. And before Palimak knew it Foron was lifting up the white kid's-leather sack that held the voting markers. He upended the bag and dozen or more tiles spilled out; half were black, indicating a no vote, while the other half were white, meaning yes.

Palimak's blood went to high boil. He'd had enough, dammit! Betrayed by his own grandfather, by the gods! Although a small part of him whispered there was some truth in what they said. But to the hells with that! He'd done it for their own good, hadn't he? Only doing what his father had asked.

On his shoulder, the speck that was Gundara whispered in his ear, "We're ready, Little Master. Just say the word!"

Palimak's fingers stole into his pocket, touching the bit of magical parchment he kept there for just such emergencies. All he had to do was withdraw it, toss it into the council fire and a heady smoke would fill the room, making the men insensible. Then, with the help of his Favorites, he'd cast the spell that would make them pliant to his will and he'd send them on their way.

The spell would make them forget the confrontation. And he could easily create some clever bit of fiction to fill the gap in their memories. Such as the festival honoring Safar, the arrangement of which he'd originally thought was their purpose.

Then sudden self-disgust rose in his gorge. And his hand was empty when he yanked it out of his pocket.

He got to his feet.

"Go right ahead," he said. "Have your investigation. I'll abide by the will of the majority."

Ignoring the shock on their faces and the mutters of surprise that swept the room, he stalked out of the chamber.

It's up to my father, now, he thought. And with that thought a feeling of immense relief washed over him.