Sulun rubbed his stunned ears until he could hear again and stared at the field before him in unthinking shock. Hole . . . his mind feebly registered. Bombard. On them, not beside them . . . Oh gods, so that's what it can do!
Vari sat down right where she was and covered her eyes; Sulun could hear her quietly cursing, and dimly marveled that she even knew such words. Omis took a half-step forward and stared stupidly at the fresh crater as if wondering how it had gotten there. Yanados swayed, grabbed at Doshi for support, and they both collapsed together. Arizun simply and quietly fainted. Eloti, eyes wide, spread her hands and staggered like a blind man. "Gone," she whispered. "What . . . ? How?"
Zeren took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "Will of the gods," he growled, "and will of Wotheng." He turned to face the Ashkell lord's wagon and raised his sword hand in ironic salute.
Wotheng stood up in his cart and solemnly returned the gesture. Then he lifted and rang his bell. "The combat is ended," he announced, harsh-voiced. "The priests of Deese are found innocent of all charges."
"Yes," Zeren muttered, lowering his arm. "And I hope you're satisfied."
Gynallea, white to the lips, clutched her husbands arm. "Is this it?" she hissed at him. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Aye," Wotheng growled, looking abruptly older than his years. "I knew from first report what a weapon that could make; fierce enough to defend the Vale, scare off greedy neighbor lords, keep us and our descendants safe. I had to make Sulun use it, would he or no: show everyone what it could do, spread the word all over the northlands. Now, by the gods, we're safe."
"Safe! Safe? With that?"
"I confess . . ." Wotheng briefly chewed his lip. "I didn't know it would . . . do quite that."
The crowd, still moaning quietly in horror, melted back from the sight of the field. The motion grew into a current, slipped off the hills, out of the valley, off down the eastward road, safely away from Deese House and its hideous new landmark and its vast and terrible power. Slowly the crowd moved, cautiously, politely—but away.
Sulun looked about him, cold with stark comprehension. Yes, he'd won, and Yotha House was no more, and Deese House was safe. But Wotheng had used him, and now the vale folk feared him, and the souls of his family were forever stained with a darkness. He wondered what would become of Eloti's school now, of his hopes for spreading knowledge and enlightenment, of forming the core of a new civilization in Ashkell Vale. The family of Deese had won their survival, certainly, but at what cost?
And how did it happen?
He looked up at the wall, at the bombard. No, the muzzle was not pointed where he'd seen it last; now it was aimed straight at that damning hole in the field.
Beside it, straight and tall and smiling coldly in unshamed -triumph, stood Ziya. She caught Sulun's eye, waved a merry salute to him, then turned and—before all the gods—began reloading the bombard.
Gods, what has she become? Sulun wondered, shivering.
Ziya finished her task, lifted her lighted taper and waved again to Sulun.
"This is not the beginning I wanted," he said, to himself as much as her. Guessing she couldn't hear him, he shook his head. "Child, can't you understand? this was a bad beginning!"
If Ziya heard, she gave no sign. She cocked her head to one side and called down from the walls, as if asking for further orders.
"Fire ready," she said.
Book Two:
Wizard Spawn
CHAPTER ONE
The midday sun managed a brief deception, illumining the Great Hall of the ducal palace, casting illusory warmth on grey stone walls. For a moment tapestries and banners blazed out above the crowded tables. High in the sooty rafters, smoke from the great cooking fires eddied about like a man-made mist.
Members of the ducal court packed the tables set beneath the high seat, their garments a sea of color highlighted in torchlight. Grey-clad priests of Hladyr sat elbow-to-elbow with richly dressed lords of the Duchy; dark blue robes of court wizards contrasted sharply with the House artists' polychrome. Several alchemists sat together, a knot of black in the midst of the tables.
Facing them all, His Grace Duke Hajun vro Telhern sat at the center of the high table, his wife at his left, his eldest son and heir, Brovor, at this right; the other royal children, daughter Alwisa, and son Saladar, his youngest, sat to the wife's left.
Sated and drowsy from rich food and drink—to say nothing of the cups of wine he had downed—Hajun would have nodded had ducal dignity permitted.
But outside, the clouds closed, and once more the hall grew shadowed. A sudden gust of rain slatted against the windows and Hajun winced: Shining One, he prayed silently, keep the winds furled. Guard my ships, Hladyr . . . keep them safe.
He met the eyes of a grey-haired man sitting at the table closest to the high seat. "Jorrino," he said. "Attend me."
The man rose from his chair, bowed, and walked to the table to face Hajun.
"It's raining again," Hajun said unnecessarily: the sound of it on the windowpanes behind him was audible over the conversation in the hall. "I'm sick to death of this weather. What are my wizards doing about it?"
Jorrino drew an uneasy breath, met Hajun's gaze squarely. "What we always do, Your Grace. Wish it off on another city."
Hajun scowled. "Dammit, wish a little harder then."
The wizard spread his hands. "My lord, I assure you, we're doing all we can."
An old, old doubt came back. "Could someone—some enemy of mine—be responsible for the storms?"
"Possibly, lord. While we aren't sure one can ill-wish the weather, we aren't sure one can't: we keep searching."
"For what do I fund you? For aren't sure?"
The wizard bowed distressedly, and stood in silence.
"Well?"
"There are whispers, lord,—"
"Whispers. Gold to my wizards . . . and they bring me -whispers. . . ."
Jorrino gnawed at his moustaches, folded his hands, bowed. "Sabirn, Your Grace—somewhere in this city, a gathering of powerful Sabirn wizards—"
Hajun let go his breath and fell back with a wave of his hand. "Gods, if I've heard that one once—"
"My lord, they say this information is from a Sabirn."
Sabirn: little dark people of the alleyways and back streets of Targheiden, people good for little else than the most menial tasks. Hard to think of any of them as being wizards . . .
"And who was this Sabirn who so freely whispers these dire plots?"
"A fortune-teller—"
"Gods . . ."
"In the market. The Guard caught him stealing and put him to the question. He admitted to fakery, but he swore—swore, lord, that genuine wizards among his people have powers—"
A small, icy snake uncoiled in Hajun's stomach. "Do you believe him?"
Jorino edged closer, dropped his voice. "Lord, the Sabirn have no love for us."
Hajun started to protest, but frowned and thought on it, on the weather, the ill winds—inconceivable that Sabirn might have wizards powerful enough to bring the kingdom down . . . but they were secretive, they were ancient: wizards, legend said, long ago . . . before Targheiden stood—