Wind Rider's Oath: Chapter Twenty One

    “He truly is an idiot, isn’t he?”

    “Triahm?” a soft, throaty contralto said from behind Varnaythus. The contralto’s owner laughed. “Are you only just now realizing that?”

    “Scarcely, Dahlaha,” Varnaythus said dryly. It was his turn to gaze out of a window over the night-darkened streets of Thalar. It was a much nicer window than the one in Triahm’s office, although Triahm had paid for both of them.

    The wizard-priest craned his neck, gazing up past the luxurious mansion’s overhanging eaves at a night sky the color of darkest cobalt and full of stars. There was no moon tonight, which was probably a good sign, he told himself. Then he turned away from the stars and back to business.

    His hostess, reclining on the chaise longue across the table from him, was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He admitted that candidly, yet her beauty didn’t really appeal to him. He could appreciate and admire her sleek, golden hair and huge blue eyes, the impeccable bone structure of her graceful, oval face and high cheekbones, and the svelte lines of the richly curved figure which hovered just this side of overripeness. But the pouting mouth that whispered passion to other men whispered to him of corruption.

    There was something too perfect about Dahlaha Farrier’s sensual beauty. Not even Varnaythus could be certain, but he strongly suspected that her natural appearance had been significantly improved upon. Unfortunately, improving the packaging had made no difference to what lived inside it, which was hardly surprising. Women who turned to Dahlaha’s chosen deity were already corrupt, with a soul-deep twistedness, because only a woman who was could endure Her service. Priestesses like Dahlaha could count upon being gifted with eye-catching physical beauty, if they did not already possess it, but no amount of enhanced beauty was going to change that inner distortion.

    Varnaythus enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh as much or more than the next man, and he had no inherent objection to corruption. But there was a hunger to Dahlaha’s corruption—one as dark as Jerghar’s lust for blood, although it yearned for something quite different. Varnaythus had no illusions about what would ultimately happen to any man who surrendered himself to Dahlaha’s power.

    “Of course I’ve always known Triahm is a fool,” the wizard-priest continued, settling himself into the more conventional chair he preferred to the chaise longues Dahlaha favored. No doubt so that she could display her indisputable charms to best advantage. “If he weren’t a fool, he wouldn’t be the tool we need. And if stupidity and ambition didn’t blind him to everything but what he wants, he might ask himself a few awkward questions about just where and how you were able to find him ‘hirelings’ with our capabilities. But despite all that, it genuinely annoys me to find myself helping an idiot like that supplant someone who at least has a working brain.”

    “What’s this? The conspirator as philosopher?” Dahlaha laughed again. “Or is it just a case of pragmatic necessity offending your innate sense of artistry?”

    “The latter, probably,” Varnaythus said. He leaned forward and snagged another apple from the table. It was from the previous fall’s harvest, and its skin was wrinkled, but its taste remained pleasantly sweet.

    “Say what you will about Cassan,” he continued as he chewed, “the man is at least competent within the limits of what he knows is going on. And he has two or three people working for him who are very good at what they do—like Darnas Warshoe.” He shook his head and took another bite of apple. “Warshoe’s good enough that I actually had to hunt him down and arrange for him to stumble over ‘Cathman the Peddler.’ ”

    “Oh?” Dahlaha laughed. “Are you still using that old faker as an alias?”

    “It works,” Varnaythus replied with a grin. “And even though he’s considered a harmless old crank, he does manage to find a few charms and protective amulets that actually work. Fortunately for us, Cassan’s one real weakness is an absolute phobia about magi reading his mind.” The wizard-priest shrugged. “It’s silly of him, of course, but it inspired him to send Warshoe to Cathman for amulets to prevent it as soon as Warshoe reported that Cathman was in Toramos. Amulets of my own design, of course. And the beauty of it is that Cassan insists that all of his closest henchmen wear them at all times, to keep magi from picking their brains, so now I can keep track of all of them without even needing my gramerhain. Which is probably a good thing, given how busy Cassan keeps them—especially Warshoe.”

    “Well, that’s Cassan, not Triahm,” she said. “But if it makes you feel better about helping an idiot, just remember how unlikely he is to survive long enough to enjoy his success. As you said yourself, his incompetence was one of the reasons They chose him as Their tool. Do you honestly expect him to be able to navigate the storm we’re preparing for him?”

    “No, of course not.” Varnaythus munched on his apple, then chuckled suddenly. “And you know what? It does make me feel better.”

    Dahlaha laughed yet again and raised her glass in mock salute. He waved the half-eaten apple at her in response, then applied himself to finishing it off.

    “Do you really think that having Tellian’s daughter injected into the situation at Kalatha is going to work to our advantage?” his hostess asked after a moment, her tone much more serious, and Varnaythus snorted.

    “It’s hard to say.” he took a last bite of apple, tossed the gnawed core back onto his plate, and then stretched. “With another, more typical Sothoii noble, I’d be more prepared to hazard a prediction. But Tellian is scarcely typical—I suspect that that’s the main reason They want him dead, or at least discredited and set at odds with the Crown.” He shrugged. “The man loves his wife and his daughter, and I frankly think it’s unlikely he’ll cut himself off from the girl, whatever she’s done. That’s the real reason I opposed killing her. If we can get him tangled up in our little web—” Dahlaha’s eyes flashed at his choice of noun, as he’d known they would “— it would do far more to destabilize the kingdom as a whole than anything we might achieve locally here in Lorham.”

    “Don’t underestimate what we’re doing here, Varnaythus.” Dahlaha’s husky voice had turned cold and hard, and Varnaythus glanced at her. “My Lady doesn’t waste Her efforts on minor projects,” she continued. “The web She’s weaving here will stretch out to every corner of the Wind Plain. Yes, drawing Tellian into Her toils would make things easier. But in the end, She will achieve her goals even without him.”

    “And if a champion of Tomanak interferes?” Varnaythus asked levelly. There was an odd, greenish flicker at the backs of Dahlaha’s eyes, and he felt his pulse quicken with a sudden tingle of something much too much like fear for his taste. But he made himself look into those eyes steadily, and reminded himself that he, too, had his patron.

    “Tomanak!” Dahlaha hissed the hated name. Her long, graceful fingers with their crimson-painted nails flexed like claws, or pincers, and she spat on the floor. “That for your precious champion!” she snarled.

    She really didn’t look at all beautiful in that moment, Varnaythus reflected.

    “That’s all very well,” he said in a brisk, businesslike voice, “but your Lady is the one who’s going to have to deal with this Kaeritha if she gets that far putting things together.”

    “She won’t,” his hostess said shortly.

    “Dahlaha,” he said patiently, “that’s exactly the sort of thinking that leads to . . . unfortunate errors. I remind you of what happened to Tharnatus when this same champion and Bahzell came calling in Navahk.”

    “Tharnatus was a fool, and Sharna is a coward,” she shot back, and her ripe mouth twisted with contempt. “I can’t believe your Lady let Herself be roped into that entire mess. One thing Carnadosa has always been is smart, so what was She thinking of to throw good money after bad that way?”

    “The Lady of the Wand is smart,” Varnaythus agreed. “In this case, though, She had no choice. The decision came from Phrobus Himself.”

    Dahlaha looked up from her wineglass, her expression suddenly taut. Then she shrugged.

    “I still don’t understand why Phrobus allowed himself to be convinced to let Sharna deal with the hradani in the first place. Granted, even He should have been able to handle a horde of ignorant barbarians, but His father must have known He’d think small, as usual. And then He chose Tharnatus as His chief priest. Tharnatus!” She barked a vicious laugh. “He always was as stupid as Triahm, and he certainly proved it in Navahk! First he overestimated his own cleverness and power, and then Sharna was too terrified of Tomanak to face him openly when Tharnatus needed Him most. But that won’t happen here. My Lady fears no one and nothing! When we require Her aid, She’ ll provide it, and spit in Tomanak’s face, if She must.”

    Varnaythus gazed at her for several seconds, and his stomach muscles tightened at what he saw in her expression. It was more than possible that she was reading too much into her deity’s intentions. But it was also possible that she wasn’t. Dahlaha’s Lady was noted for neither her sense of restraint nor her willingness to accept any limitations upon her power. Or, for that matter, for what most mortals would have called her sanity. The wizard-priest remembered his conversation with Jerghar, and he felt sweat trying to pop out along his hairline.

    “I trust it won’t be necessary for it to come to that,” he said after a moment, choosing his words and controlling his tone rather more carefully than he usually did in conversation with Dahlaha.

    “I doubt very much that it will.”

    She, too, seemed to have stepped back a pace from the intensity of the moment before. She lifted her wineglass and sipped delicately, then set it gently on the table.

    “All of the pieces are in place,” she said. “When They decided to place this portion of the plan in Her care, They knew what They were doing.” Her smile was a thing of ice and old, dried bone. “We’ve placed Her agents—including the ones who don’t even realize they’re working for Her—in all of the critical places.”

    “Including Trisu’s household?” Varnaythus asked in a neutral tone, and she grimaced.

    “No,” she admitted. “Not there.” She shrugged irritably. “there’s something about Trisu that bothers me. When I look at him, I don’t see what I see in other men’s eyes.”

    She picked up the wineglass once more, but this time only to glower down into its depths, not to drink from it, and Varnaythus watched her expression from behind masklike eyes. It was obvious that she resented Trisu’s apparent immunity to the allure of her exquisitely maintained beauty and raw sexuality, but there was more to it than simple resentment. There was also uncertainty, almost a trace of fear, and he cocked his head.

    “What do you see in his eyes?” he asked finally, and she shrugged again, this time angrily.

    “Suspicion,” she hissed, like a cat passing a fishbone, and glowered at her fellow conspirator. The green flicker was back in her eyes, although fainter than before, and he could almost physically taste her anger—at him, this time—for forcing her to admit that. But he could stand more than Dahlaha’s anger if that was the price of making sure he didn’t disappoint Them.

    “Suspicion of what?” he asked, quietly, but in a tone whose firmness reminded her that he was her superior—for now, at least—and warned her that he expected an answer.

    “I don’t know,” she admitted, then tossed her head angrily. “I know he knows I’m Triahm’s mistress, and he’s too straitlaced to care for that. Besides, he likes Triahm’s wife, and I’m sure he resents his cousin’s infidelity because of that, as well. But there’s something else in there, too, and I’m not sure exactly what it is.”

    She obviously hated confessing that much, but she made herself meet Varnaythus’ eyes steadily, and it seemed to him that she was being honest about her concerns. Or, at least, as honest as it was possible for her to be.

    “Well, he obviously doesn’t know Who you serve,” the wizard-priest observed. “If he did, you’d be dead—or at least fled, with his troops in hot pursuit, which would be almost as bad from Their viewpoint. I wonder . . .”

    His voice trailed off, and he gazed into the distance at something only he could see, his fingers drumming absently on his thigh while he thought. Dahlaha stood it in silence for as long as she could, then cleared her throat noisily. His eyes popped back into focus and swiveled to her.

    “You wonder what?” she demanded.

    “I wonder if he’s Gifted,” the wizard-priest replied.

    “Gifted?” Dahlaha sat up on her chaise lounge, her expression alarmed. “Is that possible?”

    “Of course it’s possible.” Varnaythus grimaced. “He’s a Sothoii. Whatever they may have degenerated into since, they’re descended from the oldest, highest noble families of the Empire of Ottovar. Some of them probably have traces of Ottovar and Gwynytha’s blood in their veins even today. Most of the surviving wizard lords of Kontovar are descended from exactly the same source, for Phrobus’ sake. The Art is bred into their bone and blood, Dahlaha. It’s our good fortune that their ancestors turned so completely against all forms of wizardry after their escape to Norfressa. There’s a very good chance Trisu’s bloodline carries the Gift, but there’s virtually no chance at all of his knowing it. Still, if it’s strong enough, he might well have at least a touch of True Sight. In which case he probably recognizes that there’s something hidden behind your outward appearance. There’s no way he could know what, not without a great deal of training he can’t possibly have had. But many people who possess instinctive True Sight rely on it even if they don’t know exactly what it is.” He shrugged. “Most of them simply assume that they have unusually accurate ‘hunches’ and let it go at that.”

    “You never suggested he might have any abilities like that!”

    “I don’t recall your ever having asked me what abilities he might have,” Varnaythus replied coolly. “As you’ve pointed out to me several times, this end of the operation is yours—yours and your Lady’s. I assumed that if you’d had any reason to believe you needed my assistance, you would have asked for it.”

    Dahlaha glared at him, obviously looking for a fresh line of attack, but his defense was unassailable. The Lorham and Kalatha portions of the master plan to destabilize the Kingdom of the Sothoii and return it to the Time of Troubles were, indeed, her responsibility.

    “Very well,” she huffed finally, “be that way. But at least tell me this—is this untrained Gift of his likely to see through Triahm’s role playing?”

    “It probably already has,” Varnaythus said calmly. “Luckily for us, even if he were trained, he wouldn’t be able to read minds. He’s not a mage, Dahlaha. I’m sure he realized long ago that his dear cousin Triahm hates his guts and resents the fact that a man ten years younger than he is inherited the title he wants so badly. Trisu doesn’t trust Triahm as far as he could throw a courser, but aside from helping to confirm that his general suspicions are justified, the True Sight won’t help him anywhere else. Although, it’s possible that the combination of his distrust for Triahm and any True Sight he might possess could explain why he should have taken his cousin’s mistress in such dislike.” He flicked one hand in a throwing-away gesture. “On the other hand, does it really matter? Do you really care how much Trisu may dislike you? I mean, you’re planning on having the man killed, Dahlaha, so what does it matter if he doesn’t particularly care for you?”

    “It doesn’t matter at all,” she said, “except that the eye he keeps on me has prevented me from infiltrating his household the way I managed at Kalatha. I haven’t cared to take too many chances, so I’ve been unable to eliminate or tamper with people like Salthan.”

    “There’s not really any need to put Salthan out of the way,” Varnaythus said after a brief consideration. “Or, rather, we can let Triahm deal with it once Trisu’s dead. That’s the beauty of it. We didn’t have to change anything at this end.”

    “I know. I’d still feel better if I had more positive control of the situation, though.”

    “There’s never any such thing as too much control,” Varnaythus agreed. “Still, it sounds as if you have things in hand. What truly matters is goading the war maids into providing the proper provocation, not whether or not Trisu responds to it exactly the way we want him to. After all,” he leaned back with an expansive gesture and an icy smile, “when the time comes, what will count isn’t what actually happened, but what everyone thinks happened.”

    Leeana stood gazing at Garlahna while butterflies seemed to circle one another in some sort of intricate dance in her midsection. She felt a fluttery-pulsed uncertainty she was not accustomed to, and none of the social formulae or skills she’d been taught as a baron’s daughter offered her any hint about what to do next.

    “So, Leeana,” Garlahna said before the awkward pause could stretch too long. “I suppose we’d better see about your room assignment and getting you settled in.” she smiled. “Trust me—you won’t have time to do any of it tomorrow!”

    “That’s how it sounded to me, too,” Leeana admitted with a wan smile.

    “Oh, don’t let Hundred Erlis’ act fool you,” Garlahna said cheerfully. “It’s lots worse than she makes it sound!”

    “Oh, thank you!” Leeana replied, and found herself sharing a tension-soothing laugh with her “mentor.”

    She stood back mentally to give Garlahna a quick examination. She’d already noted the other young woman’s broad, somewhat rustic accent, although Garlahna’s grammar was much better than she would have expected from that accent. Garlahna was from somewhere in the eastern part of the West Riding, she guessed, near the Spear River, and her parents had probably been small freeholders, or the retainers of one of her father’s minor lords. As such, the social gulf between their births could not possibly have yawned wider, yet Garlahna seemed totally unaware that she was speaking to the only child of the Lord Warden of the West Riding. Which, Leeana conceded, was as it ought to be, because she no longer was her parents’ child—not legally, at any rate. But it was still interesting that Garlahna could manage that disassociation between who she now was and who she once had been.

    “You’re welcome,” Garlahna told her, once their shared laughter had eased. Then she waved one hand in a small, dismissive gesture.

    “Don’t worry about it too much, Leeana. All of us have had to survive it somehow. In some ways, it’s almost like a kind of ceremony—a trial by combat, I guess you might call it—before we’re really war maids. Actually,” she wrinkled her nose as she gave Leeana a critical, evaluating glance, “I kind of suspect you’ll do better than most of us. At least you’ve got the legs for speed, which is more than I ever did. And,” she grinned again, “you’re nowhere near as top-heavy as I am!”

    Leeana felt the very tips of her ears heat and was just as happy her hair covered them. There was, she noted, just a hint of complacency in Garlahna’s voice.

    “I hope I won’t disappoint you,” she said after a heartbeat. “But, not wanting to change the subject, or anything, I do have one other question.”

    “Ask away,” Garlahna invited.

    “What do I do about my horse?”

    “Your horse?” Garlahna sounded surprised.

    “Yes,” Leeana said. “My horse.”

    “You’ve got a horse?” Garlahna shook her head.

    “What’s so surprising about that?” Leeana asked, her voice just a bit cautious.

    “Is it really yours?” Garlahna countered, and for some reason, she sounded even more cautious than Leeana had.

    “Of course he’s mine. Why?”

    “I mean, does he belong to you, or to Baron Tellian?”

    “He—” Leeana began, then paused. “He was a gift from my—from . . . Baron Tellian,” she said after a long moment. “On my twelfth birthday.”

    “Did he actually give you its ownership papers?” Garlahna’s tone had taken on more than a hint of sympathy, and Leeana shook her head.

    “No,” she admitted, feeling tears sting the backs of her eyes. “Boots has been my horse for over two years now. Everyone knew it. I guess . . . I guess the Baron never saw any reason why he had to formally present me with his papers.”

    “Then he’s not legally yours, Leeana,” Garlahna said gently. She shook her head and reached out to lay a sympathetic hand on Leeana’s shoulder. “It happens, sometimes,” she went on quietly. “Most of the time when someone gets here with a horse, there’s someone chasing her who can hardly wait to take it away again. And it always turns out that legally, she never owned it at all.”

    Leeana stared at her while she tried to cope with a sudden, vicious stab of pain. She’d known she would be giving up her entire life, everything she’d ever owned and everyone she’d ever known. Yet, somehow, she’d never thought about giving up Boots. He was . . . he was part of her life. Her friend, not “just” her horse. And . . . and . . .

    And part of all she’d left behind, she thought wretchedly. She’d managed somehow to overlook that. But perhaps she hadn’t overlooked it. Perhaps she’d just pretended that she had. Because deep inside, she’d known—she’d always known. It was just the suddenness of being forced to confront the knowledge, she told herself. The abrupt amputation.

    “I—” She shook herself. “I never thought about that,” she said in a valiantly normal tone which fooled neither her nor Garlahna. “Do you think I could have a few minutes to tell him goodbye before they take him away?”

    “We can ask,” Garlahna promised her. “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much. Your fa—” It was her turn to stop herself short. Her eyes met Leeana’s, and she smiled apologetically. “Baron Tellian will probably be in a hurry to head home, Leeana.”

    She paused again, then looked around, as if to make certain no one was within earshot, before she leaned closer to Leeana.

    “I really shouldn’t tell you this,” she said conspiratorially, “but Baron Tellian was furious when the Mayor told him he couldn’t see you because of your probationary status. We’re not supposed to know about anything that went on between them, but one of my friends had an errand to run to Sharral for Hundred Erlis. She was in Sharral’s office when the Baron got here, and she could hear him through the door.”

    She grimaced and rolled her eyes.

    “Actually, I think everyone in the building could probably hear him! That happens pretty often in a case like this. In fact, when someone from a new war maid’s family turns up, they’re usually spitting lightning and farting thunder—” her eyes twinkled at something in Leeana’s expression “—as Hundred Erlis would put it,” she finished the sentence demurely. Then she shook her head.

    “But that’s normally because they’re so pissed off that she’s run away from them and gotten to one of our towns before they could catch up with her. And that wasn’t why the Baron was mad. He was mad because they wouldn’t let the two of you say goodbye to each other. Or, that’s what my friend Tarisha said, anyway.”

    Tears flooded Leeana’s eyes, and Garlahna squeezed her shoulder.

    “The thing is,” she continued gently, “that I don’t think he’s going to stay even overnight. I don’t think he’ll want to be this close to you when you can’t even speak to each other. So I’m afraid he’ll be gone before you could say goodbye to your horse, either.”

    “I see,” Leeana half-whispered. Then she wiped her eyes with her hand, quickly, almost angrily. “I see,” she repeated more normally. “And . . . thank you for telling me.”

    “You’re welcome,” Garlahna said. “Just don’t tell Hundred Erlis I did!” She grinned hugely. “She’d skin me out and tan my hide for shoe leather if she knew I was blabbing to a probationary candidate about something like that!”

    “Oh, we couldn’t have that!” Leeana reassured her with a watery giggle.

    “Thanks. And, I know it may not make you feel any better about your horse—Boots?—but it’s probably actually for the best, you know. I never had a horse of my own, but I know how much work they take. And how much they cost to feed!” Garlahna grimaced. “If you got to keep him, you’d have to take care of him yourself.”

    Leeana felt herself stiffen slightly, and Garlahna shook her head quickly.

    “I’m not saying you didn’t already do that at home. Although, I’d be willing to bet you probably didn’t have to muck out his stall yourself, did you?” she added shrewdly, and Leeana felt herself forced to shake her head.

    “Well, you’d have to do that, too, here,” Garlahna told her. “And, believe me, you’re not going to have enough time to breathe, much less take care of horses, for the next couple of weeks! And even if you were, I’ll bet you don’t have any money with you. Or, at least, not enough to pay for a horse’s stable space and food.”

    “No,” Leeana admitted, “I don’t. But,” she added gamely, “I’m sure I could find some way to earn it!”

    “Welllll, I suppose it’s possible,” Garlahna allowed. “There’s always extra chores that need doing, and we can usually pick up the odd extra kormak for doing them. But like I say, it’s not like you’d have time to be doing them.”

    “You’re probably right,” Leeana sighed.

    “No ‘probably’ about it,” Garlahna snorted. “I am right about it. But,” she continued more briskly, “we shouldn’t be standing here chattering away. Hundred Erlis will kick my backside if I don’t get you squared away before dinner, so come on! Over to Administration for your room assignment first, and then over to Housekeeping for bed linens. And,” she grinned wickedly, “to get rid of those tacky clothes you’re wearing and get you measured for your own chari and yathu.”