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Authors: Judith Tarr

Tides of Darkness (23 page)

BOOK: Tides of Darkness
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Kamos was not a weak king. As kings went in this world, he ruled well. But Daros had hoped for better. His fault and his folly: he was his father's son in spite of everything, and had seen the rule of Sun and Lion in the great cities of another empire, on the other side of the sky.
Daros had not come here to teach a king how to rule. Nor was there time if he had intended such a thing. But the temptation to do something, say something, was overwhelming.
There was a thing he could do. He did not know that it had been done before, but the part of him that knew his magic was sure that it was possible. He would have preferred another place, and another king—or better yet a queen—but maybe, once the gift was given, this king would wake to the failings of his rule.
Or maybe he would close his eyes to them altogether and become a tyrant.
Daros must hope, and trust in his magic, which had led him here. He walked the circle of the walls, then back through squalor to wide avenues and noble houses. He was aware on the edge of his mind that people followed him, stared at him, tried to touch him—but his companion held them off with a hard eye and a raised spear.
He halted by a cistern, one of many in the city. Its lid was off, and jars
abandoned by it: the women who had come to draw water had fled at the sight of him. He was sorry for that, but he did not think it would be wise to call them back.
He sat on the rim. The water was not far below; it shimmered darkly, reflecting the sky. It made him think of darkmages, how soft and deep their power could be.
He was not a darkmage. He was not sure that he was a lightmage, either. He seemed to partake of both. Or maybe he was something different.
The sun, even so close to the horizon, fed him its strength. The water, born of the river that was the lifeblood of this land, made him stronger. Even the stones and the beaten earth had become part of him, though this was never the world to which he was born.
He looked up from the water. The young man from the palace was watching him steadily, wary but not afraid. There was a brightness in him, a spark even stronger than that in the king. “You're the king's son,” Daros said, for it was clear to see. “What is your name?”
“Menkare,” the prince said, “my lord.”
“Did your father bid you watch me?” Daros asked, though he could have had the answer for the looking.
“No, my lord,” said Menkare. “You're full of light. Even after your spell ended in the hall, it stayed, under your skin. Is that because you are a god?”
“It's because I am a mage,” Daros said. “Come here.”
The boy came, light on his feet, alert, but obedient to the god's will. When Daros took his hand, he barely stiffened. He had a bright clean spirit, and a mind that thought in lines like shafts of sunlight in a dark hall. He was little like his father, except in the magnitude of his gift.
Daros was not devout, but he knew the gods existed—and not only mages who were thought to be gods. Looking at this son of the king, he knew why he had come here, and what he had been brought to do. He opened the gate of his magic and let it flow through their joined hands, into the brightness at the heart of this prince. It was headlong, eager; it
took the full force of his will to keep it flowing slowly, lest it burn away the boy's mind.
Menkare's eyes were wide. “What—my lord—”
“The gods' gift,” Daros said. “I give it to you.”
“But—”
“There are greater gods than I,” said Daros, “and this is their will. They ask that you not speak of it until they give you leave. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lord,” Menkare said. “But—”
“Come,” said Daros.
Menkare followed slowly, stumbling a little. He was full of light, brimming with it. It streamed through his veins and flooded his brain, his heart, his lungs and liver.
He could not wield it yet. Daros had not given him that. He must grow into it, become accustomed to it. But when the shadow came back, if the gods were kind, there would be a new mage in this world.
Daros had been walking perfectly steadily and thinking perfectly clearly. He was astonished to find himself on his back and Menkare standing over him, and the gate-guards lifting him. He could not move at all.
His magery was intact. He had done it no harm. But every scrap of bodily strength that he had had was gone.
They carried him in and put him to bed. Menkare's glance swore the guards to silence. He stayed with Daros, as quietly watchful as ever.
Daros had a voice if he would use it, and words enough, too, but he elected to be silent. Sleep came swiftly, sweeping over him like a tide of night.
S
LEEP RESTORED DAROS' STRENGTH AND BROUGHT HIM BACK TO himself. He woke to find Menkare asleep beside his bed, curled on the floor like a hound pup. The magic in him had settled more deeply: he looked to Daros' eye like a mage indeed, albeit young and unschooled.
Was this how Daros looked to the mages of Gates and temples?
Daros lay for a long while, feeling out the channels of his body, assuring himself that they were all as they should be. His power was fully itself. He had surrendered none of it. The price, then, was the body's strength—which could be inconvenient if he was to bring magery to this world without magic.
At length he rose carefully, relieved to discover that his knees would
hold him up. His hair had not gone white; he had not poured away his youth. He was still his young and potent self.
Such vanity: his knees nearly gave way, but only with relief. He did love to be young and strong and beautiful.
He stooped over Menkare. The prince woke slowly, blinking, frowning up at Daros' face. “You changed me,” he said. “My dreams—”
“You were a seed. I made you grow.”
“What … am I a god?”
“If by that you mean a mage,” Daros said, “yes. You are.”
“That's not what I wanted,” Menkare said. “You should have given it to my father.”
“This gift was not for him,” said Daros.
“
He
wants it.”
“I'll give him what he can bear,” Daros said, “and ask him for a thing in return. Will you come with me? Will you help me make these kingdoms one?”
Menkare sparked at that, very much in spite of himself. Yet he said, “I'm not sure I trust you.”
“Or your brothers, once you're away and the field is clear for them to claim your place?”
Menkare laughed without mirth. “No, I don't trust them at all—but I'm not afraid of them, either. You, I think I fear.”
“I am strong,” said Daros, “and I am not of this world. It's wise to be wary of me. But I mean you no harm.”
“You'll have to prove that.”
“Then you will have to come with me, so that I can do it.”
This time Menkare's laughter was genuine, if somewhat painful. “I'll go with you. How can I not?”
“How indeed?” said Daros.
 
Kamos took most of the three days to make the choice he could not help but make. In that time, Daros made himself familiar with the court,
learned the names of the lords both greater and lesser, and became acquainted with each of Menkare's dozen brothers. Some were older, some younger. Two others were sons of the king's foremost wife.
She summoned him late on the second day, with her eldest son as her messenger. The summons was no great secret, but neither was it trumpeted aloud in court.
Women here did not live apart from men, nor were they kept in seclusion as they still were among the higher nobility of Asanion. But they kept to their own places, ruled their own realm of the house, the nursery, the ladies' court. He had met none of the queens, who had their own palace and their own court; he was sure that that was deliberate on the king's part. Kings, unless they were Estarion, had a certain predilection for keeping their women away from excessively attractive men.
That did not prevent the queen from sending her son to fetch the god from beyond the sky. She received him in a cool and airy room, seated on a throne much like her husband's, attended by a guard of women whom, for an instant, Daros took for northerners of his own world.
He had seen people from the south of this world: large, strong, very dark, though not the true blue-black as Estarion was. Their faces were broad and blunt, their lips full, their hair as tightly curled as a woolbeast's fleece.
These women were of like blood, but they were leaner, even taller, and their features were carved clean; and once his eyes had found their range, he saw that they were not so dark. They were deep brown with an almost reddish cast. He could not tell if their hair was straight or curled: it was shaved to the elegant skull. They wore kilts like guardsmen, and carried spears.
They were glorious. He smiled for the pure joy of seeing them, even as he bowed before the queen.
She was a woman of this country, as he would have expected. She looked a great deal like her son. He would not have called her beautiful, but she was pleasing to look at; her eyes were clear, with a keen intelligence.
“You like my guards?” she asked. Her voice was warm and rich, much lovelier than her face.
“Your guards are splendid, lady,” Daros said. “Where do they come from?”
“From a tribe far to the south,” she answered him.
“There are tribes far to the north of my world,” he said, “who are quite like these. Their women are warriors, too.”
“Would those be my guards' gods, perhaps?”
“Anything is possible,” said Daros.
The queen smiled. “And you? Do you belong to a tribe?”
“My people live in cities,” he said. “My father is a ruling prince—I suppose you would reckon him a king, but my family takes a certain ancient pride in eschewing that name and rank.”
“A prince among gods,” said the queen. “We are honored.”
Daros bowed to the compliment.
“You come bearing gifts,” she said. “My husband is in great confusion of mind over that which you offer him. He hopes to be a god, but fears to be denied it.”
“I can only give him what he is able to accept,” Daros said.
“Is he as mortal as that?”
“All men are mortal,” Daros said. “Some are … less so than others. He has a considerable gift, for a man of this world, but I can give him only a little more.”
“Will that be of use against what comes?”
“I hope so,” said Daros.
“You hope? You don't know?”
“Prophecy is not my gift,” he said.
She sighed and rested her chin on her hand, narrowing her eyes, searching his face. “My eldest son says that when you go, you've asked him to go with you. As what? As a hostage?”
“As an ally,” said Daros.
“Will you do that in every kingdom? Take the heir to serve your cause?”
“I will do what the greater gods bid me, lady,” Daros said.
“It would be a wise thing,” she said, “to take such royal hostages, both as threat and promise. But if you take my son, I would ask something in return.”
“Yes, lady?”
“Give me what you would give my husband.”
Daros had expected that. It was not easy for him to say, “Lady, to kindle a fire, I need a spark. Your lord has it. You, alas, do not. You are mortal. But,” he said before she could speak, “this I can give you: I will keep your son safe. While I live, while I endure in this world, he will come to no harm because of me.”
She read the truth in his face. It did not please her, but she was no fool. She bowed to it. “I will accept that,” she said.
 
The king of Gebtu received his gift on the last day of Daros' sojourn in his city. It was given him in the court of the highest temple. Seti-re served as priest of a rite that Daros would have preferred to avoid; but Seti-re insisted.
“Gods live in ritual,” he said. “A god without a rite is no god at all.” There was a great deal of chanting and incense, passes of hands and turns of a sacred dance. When Daros was close to eruption, Seti-re's glance gave him leave to do the small thing, the simple thing, that all this mummery was meant to conceal.
The king knelt in the center of the court. He had taken off his crown and his wig, and bowed his bare and gleaming head in submission before the god. Daros laid his hands on it. The spark within the king was no greater than ever, if no less.
Daros gave the king what he had to give. It was not the shining flood that had filled Menkare, but a glimmer of light, a gleam in darkness. It fed the spark, swelling it into a coal.
He withdrew then, before the coal burst into flame. Kamos was trembling violently. Daros soothed him with a cool brush of magery
The rite rattled and droned and spun to a lengthy conclusion. The
king remained kneeling through all of it. Only when it had ended, when silence had fallen, did he rise, staggering, but he shook off hands that would have supported him. He walked out of the temple, eyes blank, face exalted.
That exaltation carried him through the feast of parting. Daros managed to avoid speaking with him. Seti-re did what talking was to be done, chattering of anything and everything, and seeming oblivious to the silence on either side.
Only at the end did Kamos cut through the babble, reach across the priest's ample body, and grip Daros' wrist. “Tell me what I can do,” he said.
“You can bring light in the darkness,” Daros said, “and fill hearts with hope.”
“Yes,” the king said, rapt. “Yes.” He raised his free hand. Light flickered in it, feeble enough but unmistakably there. He laughed with a child's pure delight.
“Remember also to bring hope,” Daros said, “and to look after your people. That is the price I ask, lord king. Will you pay it?”
“Yes,” said the king. “Oh, yes.”
Daros did not believe him, but chose to let be. He had what he needed: an ally, and the king's son beside him when he set sail again on the river.
He left that day, though the sun was nearer the horizon than the zenith. The king did not try to keep him, nor seemed inclined to keep his heir. The lesser princes were more than glad to see their brother go.
 
Menkare did not look back once he had set foot on the boat. “My father is a happy man,” he said as they sailed in the long light of evening. He, like Daros, had a fondness for the solitude of the prow rather than the close quarters of the deck.
“One may hope he will remain happy,” said Daros.
Menkare smiled thinly. “His new toy will keep him occupied for a while. By the time he discovers that you gave him a single dart and me
the whole quiver, we can hope that he's inclined to be forgiving.”
“The alliance has been sworn in the temple, witnessed by all the lords and priests,” Daros said. “I sealed it in other ways, which will become apparent if anyone tries to break it. It will hold at least until the enemy comes back again.”
“I won't ask how you sealed it,” Menkare said after a pause, “only be glad that you did-and hope it holds as long as you say.”
“It will hold,” said Daros, as much prayer as assurance.
“And meanwhile? Will you give godhood to every king's heir from here to the river's delta? Can you do that?”
“Only if there is a seed of magery to nurture and grow.”
“I have a thought,” said Menkare. “Men of this kind—they're drawn toward temples, yes? My father was. I was; I never went, because my mother didn't wish it, but the call was there. If you search in temples, you may find what you need.”
“I have thought of that,” Daros said. “I can't give this gift too often—its cost is too high. But if I can give it even a dozen times, that's a dozen more mages than this world had before. I can teach them as we go—then bring them back to Waset, where is a greater master than I. Then, if the gods give us time, each of you can return to your kingdom and raise walls against the enemy. Then—”
“I think,” Menkare said dryly, “that it's enough for now to think of learning to use what I've been given. Let the rest come later—and other godlings with it.”
Daros bowed to that. He had run ahead of himself; not wise, but sometimes he could not help it. There was a grandeur in it, a plan that was, without doubt, divine. But whether he could accomplish it before the shadow came back—who knew? Certainly not he. He was not prescient. He merely clung to hope, and left the rest to the gods.
BOOK: Tides of Darkness
4.12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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