David Drake - The Mirror of Worlds

Still smiling, Tenoctris pointed the sword toward the stook beneath the tripod. Again a spark popped, briefly coating the twigs like a blue corposant. They began to burn much brighter than such little bits of wood should've been able to. They had a sweet, pungent odor; Cashel sneezed. "It's cassia," Tenoctris said without taking her eyes from the bowl. "From Tisamur." Pointing the sword at the bowl, she began to chant. At first it was so soft that Cashel couldn't hear the words. He smiled at the thought. He wouldn't understood them anyway, of course.

Feathers slapped, blowing dust from the floor over his feet; he turned. It wasn't a pigeon but a raven, big as a cat even with its black wings folded. It sat just outside the circle and cocked its head, staring at Tenoctris with an eye which reflected the blue flames. A second raven flew in the door and lighted an arm's length from the first. It hopped a double pace sideways around the circle.

Cashel darted a glance to see what Tenoctris was doing. The cassia blazed like dry honeysuckle, but it didn't burn itself up. The liquid started to steam. There was only a thimbleful of liquid in the bowl, but the cloud curling up started to fill the great vault. It was faintly violet. A third raven flapped in, opened its chisel-shaped beak, and croaked. Cashel heard only a faint whisper of sound before the circle of flame roared into a solid wall of light. He felt like he was falling, but he and Tenoctris stood on the solid stone floor where the fire burned under the bubbling bowl. The wizardlight grew paler, finer; it had the texture of moonlight on a pond. The ravens had vanished, but things moved in the shadows. The smoke curving from Tenoctris' tripod swelled into the face of a man. He looked upward and screamed, "Time, just a day more of life!" He was gone, vanishing like the splash of a raindrop. The smoke shrank into another face and another and then a thing that wasn't human, could never have been human: a lizard's head with fangs the length of a finger and an eye as cold as the ravens'. Then that was gone too. "Nakyar sisbe," Tenoctris said, pointing the sword at but not into the curling smoke. "Kayam!"

The face of a man, as still and perfect as a statue of the Shepherd, rippled. It seemed to suck all the vapor into it and grow solid. "Why do you call me?" it thundered. The words echoed from much farther away than the brick dome. "I must have the key for which the Telchines have searched these many ages," Tenoctris said. The voice was certainly hers, but it had an unfamiliar harsh certainty. "That is not permitted!" said the face of smoke. "Trouble me no more!" Tenoctris drew a symbol in the air with the point of her sword. The face bellowed in pain and rage. "Where is the key!" Tenoctris said.

"Speak!" "It is not yours to grant!" the face shouted. "Only He Who took the key from the Telchines can-" "Speak!" and the sword twisted again. Cashel felt his eyes squeeze together with a stabbing pain even though he saw the motion only from the side. The face cried out wordlessly, then said, "On the Tomb of the Messengers! And may you never know release from agony for what you have done!" Tenoctris dropped the sword with a clang. Bending, she seized the tripod by one clawed leg and picked it up. Cashel frowned, but he remembered she was no longer a frail old woman. Tenoctris upended the tripod over the fire, smothering it instantly. The ring of wizardlight blazed up, then vanished to leave only darkness. Cashel faced outward, holding his staff crosswise. He couldn't tell where danger might come from.

Moonlight streamed through the doorway. Tenoctris swayed. Cashel reached out to steady her, but she caught herself without help.

"You'll have to bring my bag, I'm afraid, Cashel," she whispered.

"Yes, Tenoctris," Cashel said. "What are we going to do?" "We'll go back to the palace and sleep," Tenoctris said. "Tomorrow we have to go even farther, and I must be prepared." She laughed triumphantly. The sound echoed from the brick vault of the tomb. *** Sharina'd set tonight's council meeting in the large gazebo overlooking the water garden. The plash of water-routed from the River Beltis through an aqueduct which'd been restored by Garric after being out of order for a generation-reminded her of waves rustling against the seawall beneath her father's inn. It'd rained earlier in the afternoon, though, and the frogs screaming among the lilies weren't the same varieties as those she'd heard in Barca's Hamlet. She smiled and found that the expression felt good. It'd been too long since she'd last done it, she realized. "Councilors," she said, looking around the table of seated magnates. Their aides stood among the pillars supporting the gazebo's roof, more hidden than illuminated by the hanging lanterns. Most of the military men were eyeing Rasile unhappily. Some even fingered the lips of their empty scabbards-they weren't permitted to be armed in the presence of the Regent. "Lady Tenoctris is carrying out other duties on behalf of the kingdom,"

Sharina said. "In her absence she's deputized Rasile here-" She gestured to the Corl wizard. "-to advise us in her place. Through the use of her art, and in my presence, Rasile has received information indicating that the army must move at once to relieve Pandah, which is being besieged by the Last." "I say let them kill each other!" said Admiral Zettin, and his was only the first voice in the chorus of protest. At least six of the fourteen councilors were objecting, and several of the others glared at Rasile while they whispered to aides.

Sharina smiled again. In the epics, kings gave orders and everyone obeyed, unless perhaps a boorish villain was set up to be humiliated for questioning the king's wisdom. The reality that she'd seen, under Garric as surely as now, was that people who were fit to manage the chief bureaus of the kingdom were also more than willing to give the monarch the benefit of their opinions when they disagreed. "A moment, please," Sharina said in a normal tone. None of those speaking paid attention. She didn't try to shout over the tumult: first, because she wouldn't have succeeded and at best would've added one more voice to the babble. Second and more important, though, she didn't shout because that would've reduced her status. If she didn't project herself as Princess Sharina, these powerful soldiers would mentally relegate her to the status of a barmaid. She and Liane had known this would happen if neither Garric nor Cashel was present, so they'd made preparations. Sharina nodded, and Liane struck the eight-inch brass gong in front of her. Though her mallet was wood rather than metal, the gong's plangent note nonetheless silenced all the voices at the table. When those arguing had all closed their mouths-the more perceptive in embarrassment, the others with looks of puzzled irritation-Liane stilled the gong between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. Sharina smiled faintly and said, "Lord Waldron, would you state your objections first, please." "Your highness, we don't know what the supply situation on the route to Pandah is," the army commander said. "Before the Change we could load supplies on merchant ships and sail them to where they'd meet us. Now, we either forage on route or we pack them along-which means the draft animals eat up more than they leave." "I see the practical problems," said Sharina.

"Admiral Zettin, would you state your objections now?" "I don't mean my men can't do it," Waldron added hastily. "But it's not going to be easy." "I'll return to you shortly, milord," Sharina said, trying to put steel in her tone the way she'd heard Garric-or anyway, King Carus-do in the past. She wasn't sure she'd succeeded, but at least Waldron subsided. "Admiral, succinctly if you will." "Pandah's a nest of pirates and cannibals," Zettin said with a nod. He was pushy and young in more ways than being thirty years Waldron's junior, but he was also very clever. "The Last aren't human. The longer they fight each other, the stronger the kingdom is. We shouldn't interfere."