Wild Magic

› › ‹ ‹

Juvalgrim smoothed his hands down the embroidered panels on the front of his robe; it was a familiar feel, but not a comfortable one, not now. He took the iron chain from its hook, dropped it over his head, centered the hemisphere of cloudy crystal. The Eye of Chumavayal. It was heavy, but no weightier than usual; the god was dozing or had his attention elsewhere. He drew shaking fingers across the stone, across again, wondering if he’d at last run out of wiggle-room, if the sudden appearance of this high-born Prophet meant that Chumavayal was tired of his Whites and about to squash him.

He paced. Back and forth, back and forth across the oval rug that children from the Edgeschool had made for him, the Hammer and Anvil worked in black on a rusty orange ground. He was fond of that rug, told Reyna it kept him honest, but he wasn’t seeing it now. He was terrified, his knees threatened to fold, and his sphincters needed only half an excuse to let go. Back and forth, back and forth.

He thrust his hand inside the robe, closed his fingers over the wax-sealed phial with the poison in it. Why wait for the stake and the fireman? Do it now. Get it over with.

Back and forth.

Can’t keep this up, I’ve got to do something. If I’m going, I’d better get started.

Back and forth.

Send for him? Bring him here? Keep him quiet, keep it all quiet? But what if he won’t come? “Chumvay!” He flung his arms wide. “Do it, idiot! Do something!”

He felt at his hair, walked quickly to the dressing table with its glass mirror, took a brush and began smoothing down the long black mass, settling it into ordered waves. He inspected his face, touched balm to his lips and along his cheekbones, worked it into his skin until it had a supple sheen, then slid on the heavy gold rings that marked his rank. “Good as it’s going to get.” He smiled at himself, amused at his own reactions, how this small bit of pampering had driven out a very large terror. “Vanity, oh vanity,” he murmured. “How Reyna would laugh…”

As he moved through the corridors of the Camuctarr, he was surprised by a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t expected that, but the fervent boy for whom Chumavayal was father, protector, and source of all good was still there under the embroidery and the gold. There were oaths he’d sworn and later broken, promises implicit and explicit he’d made, then forgot as he maneuvered his way to power.

Forgot. Until now. Too late, of course.

He paced along, automatically smiling when he passed kassos, novices, and acolytes moving busily about their duties. Guilt? Was it really? He wasn’t sorry for anything he’d done, only the things he’d left undone. Not guilt. NO: Just fear congealing in his belly. He smiled broadly, amused again at his own reactions, then blinked as the leader of a line of foundling boys heading for supper responded to the smile with a giggle. “Ass’lim, High One,” the boy called out, giggled again, impressed with his own daring.

“Ass’lim, imp. No, no.” He shook his head at the Quiamboa novice who was herding them. “Let him be, Fulan.” He thumped the boy on his head. “Mind your manners, kimkim, and do what your teachers tell you and then perhaps you’ll live long enough to gain a little wisdom.”