Brothers In Arms - Chapter 8
Table of contents
Chapter 8
Heghar Ared was just as surprised to be beating his wife as his wife was to be beaten. This meant their reactions were a little off.
Oh, the rage was real enough. And his certainty that she was cheating on him with the butcher, that was real too. But Heghar was accustomed, when angry, to find himself trembling and indecisive. Until tonight, he would have thought that, should he discover his wife to be unfaithful, he would die on the spot, wishing her happiness with his last breath. Even had he been, by nature, inclined to violence, he would never have expected to find himself bruising his precious hands on someone's skull. He was a master luthier, and now his fingers would be useless for days, incapable of applying tiny inlays of shell to the neck of a guitar, would glop the finish of the lute that was waiting for a final coat of varnish.
His wife Umai, for her part, was known to the town as a hot-tempered firebrand. She gave podium-pounding speeches on morality and the dangers of drink at temple meetings. She had arms like tree roots from mixing varnishes and sanding wood. She had never once suffered anyone, not even her own father, to raise a hand to her. She was baffled to find herself weeping and begging for mercy like some opium-eating harlot being punished by her pimp -- and, deep in a locked room at the center of her mind, she was furious.
Nevertheless Heghar beat her, and she suffered herself to be beaten, because Jaceth willed it.
They couldn't see him. They had never seen him, though he'd been living in their house for several days now. Before that, he'd been living with the mayor, but making the wealthy man do strange things with his money had grown dull, and Jaceth had decided to experience domestic disharmony instead. Since the only couple in town already inclined to hitting fights was old and feeble, he preferred to make a new one. He'd chosen Heghar and Umai because he liked the smell of resin that filled their house.
He'd intended to make this play last longer. There was an alcove just off the kitchen that suited him perfectly; dark but clean, and no one went into it even before he arrived, so it wasn't hard to prevent anyone from running into him by accident. But Stiaan was coming, so he'd stepped up the schedule.
He hadn't decided yet whether Heghar would beat his wife to death. On the one hand, it would be a nice, dramatic ending to their story. On the other, he rather liked the idea of leaving them confused and justifying themselves. It would be a sort of experiment. He wanted to see whether they went on fighting like this, convinced that they were the sort of people who did so. It would depend, he supposed, on whether he remained here after Stiaan was dealt with.
As he pondered this, there was a knock at the door. Jaceth was so startled, he didn't even try to give them reactions in character, but let them stare at each other in dismay. There wasn't supposed to be a knock at the door; he couldn't sense anyone outside.
Just as he realized what must have happened, the door opened and Stiaan stepped in.
Of course; knowing Jaceth might fight him, Stiaan had displaced his presence, seeming to be much farther away than he was. That was like Stiaan.
But as Stiaan bowed a suave apology to the baffled couple, Jaceth began to be offended at the differences in him. He wasn't playing his part. Where was the diamond glitter, where was the floating cloud of ankle-length hair, where was the disregard for petty mortal concerns? Why did he have a mortal follower stepping into the house after him, an insolent mortal follower who couldn't keep his mouth shut in deference to the ancient Mara?
"Don't tell me he's one of those folks," the mortal said in Semnian, black brows knit, scratching at his grimy neck. "At least, he's sure not her."
"No," Stiaan said, turning to where Jaceth stood. And then, to Jaceth's horror, he actually rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and said, in common-sounding, colloquial Darathi, "Come out of there, you creepy little voyeur. You've played with these people enough."
Jaceth hated it when people didn't follow the script.
The Areds gasped as Jaceth let go of the injunction to ignore him, and they saw him seemingly appear in the middle of their kitchen from thin air. The next breaths they took, Heghar began praying and Umai screamed. No doubt they thought Jaceth an undead thing, a vampire or a ghost; the blue-white tint of his skin looked very much like corpse pallor. He was dressed all in pale gray; his hands were covered with silk gloves; his black hair was punished for its tendency to curl by being oiled back into a tight queue; his eyes were like coals, scarlet and sullen.
"You're early," he whispered.
Stiaan's mortal gave a jerk and aborted a motion to reach for the swords strapped to his back. "Whoa," he said uncertainly. "Where'd you come from?"
Stiaan said, "Never mind that. We're leaving." He paused. When Jaceth didn't move, Stiaan's pale blue eyes flashed like ice in the sun, and his face went hard. "Now!" he snapped, and finally Jaceth began to feel that the script hadn't been abandoned entirely.
He drifted toward his maker, paused, decided to save his speech for when they reached whatever place Stiaan had chosen as their battleground. Drifted past and out the door. As he went by the mortal, he smelled, among the usual mortal stenches, and the reek of horse and leather and dust, a hint of Mara. So this was the halfbreed? Another disappointment.
The halfbreed followed him out. He heard Stiaan spellcasting, felt the wash of power as the elder Mara erased Jaceth's meddling from the couple's minds before following as well. Now Jaceth was beginning to be really angry.
The little town of Gyrivel was silent, its streets empty in the evening light; no doubt the neighbors were listening for another scream, or something to explain it. The air was cool, the street and house walls warm, the sun sinking redly behind the mountains. Jaceth turned to see where Stiaan would lead him, but Stiaan made no move to leave.
"Do you mean to do this in the street?" Jaceth whispered in disbelief.
After a moment's pause, Stiaan said wearily, "I suppose not. You intend to fight me, then."
"Of course."
"Choose your ground."
This was more like it. Jaceth started up the street toward the hill that overlooked the town.
* * *
Stiaan thumped Kastor on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"What?"
He realized he'd spoken Darathi. "Sorry," he said in Semnian. "I said I'll be back."
"I'll come along. Unless he's liable to start throwing fireballs?"
"No. Even if he had the power, he hasn't the temperament." Hands clasped behind his back, Stiaan started strolling in the direction Jaceth had gone, and Kastor fell into step beside him. "This is just a gesture. He knows he can't win, so he has to make his defeat something epic. Or tragic," he added after a moment's thought. "He might think he can make me hurt him. He'd probably enjoy nursing a sense of injustice for a few decades."
"How long will you bind him for?"
"A long time," Stiaan said firmly. "I think I'll begin with a hundred years. And if that isn't time enough to straighten out his twist, I'll bind him a hundred more, and a hundred more, until I know he's over that." He gestured back at the house they'd left.
"What was that, anyway?"
"I'm not exactly sure. He'd put some kind of suggestion in those people's minds, but I didn't take the time to analyze it. I just broke it. And planted one of my own, convincing them their strange behavior was caused by a ghost. They'll spend money on an unnecessary exorcism, but it was all I could think of."
"He just appeared out of nowhere. Scared the shit out of me."
"He was there all along, but he tricked your mind into ignoring him. Mind-magic of that sort is his specialty. He used to play his little games with the other vishira; he's strong enough to work his will on an unwary Mara, so mortals don't stand a chance."
Kastor nodded sagely. "So that's --" He paused to half-hop and curse under his breath as his heel skidded on gravel at the foot of the steep path that wound up the hill. He was tired from walking desert roads in black clothes and leather armor. He didn't cope well with even moderate heat.
"You don't have to come along."
"No, I want to." Watching the road more carefully, Kastor went on with his interrupted thought. "That's why Serifar was scared of him. He mentioned erasing some kind of nastiness from his mind."
"Oh yes, he did like to terrorize Serifar. Poor thing. Serifar was especially vulnerable to Jaceth's manipulations. The others learned to protect themselves, more or less, but he got Serifar every time. And then Serifar would cry like a baby when he saw what he'd done, whatever Jaceth had made him do, and come running to me to tattle. I got so damned sick of it, I sent Jaceth away again, even though I'd said I wouldn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, he's one of the oldest. The second oldest, now that I think of it. The second one I made. And the first I sent away. He annoyed me with his prodding and tinkering at all my wards and set-spells. He came back a few years later, all remorse and obedience. It's not that I fell for it, so much as that I didn't give a damn. The demon had its roots deep into me by then, and I was less inclined to prevent trouble, more inclined to punish it after the fact."
They reached the top of the hill. The rocky ground was bare of vegetation, wind-scoured. Jaceth stood at the center of the bare area, gloved hands laced before him. As Stiaan approached, Jaceth bowed slightly, like a duelist. He had the setting sun behind him. He'd placed himself for dramatic effect.
"I always knew you would come to match wills with me one day, Stiaan. I think you will find me a stronger opponent than you expect. Your arrogance has always been your weak spot, and this time --"
Stiaan interrupted his rehearsed-sounding speech with an arrow of will straight to the soul. And that should have been that.
But it wasn't.
Jaceth grunted and grimaced, wavering, but he resisted the binding. His defenses bowed, but they held.
Frowning, Stiaan poured more power into the attack. Again, the walls of Jaceth's mind shuddered, but again they held fast. Still more power, and more, and still Stiaan made no progress --
And suddenly, in a wash of mental vertigo, Stiaan understood what had happened. But it was too late to disengage. As the knowlege of his error dawned on his face, he saw Jaceth start to smile.
Next chapter
Chapter 8
Heghar Ared was just as surprised to be beating his wife as his wife was to be beaten. This meant their reactions were a little off.
Oh, the rage was real enough. And his certainty that she was cheating on him with the butcher, that was real too. But Heghar was accustomed, when angry, to find himself trembling and indecisive. Until tonight, he would have thought that, should he discover his wife to be unfaithful, he would die on the spot, wishing her happiness with his last breath. Even had he been, by nature, inclined to violence, he would never have expected to find himself bruising his precious hands on someone's skull. He was a master luthier, and now his fingers would be useless for days, incapable of applying tiny inlays of shell to the neck of a guitar, would glop the finish of the lute that was waiting for a final coat of varnish.
His wife Umai, for her part, was known to the town as a hot-tempered firebrand. She gave podium-pounding speeches on morality and the dangers of drink at temple meetings. She had arms like tree roots from mixing varnishes and sanding wood. She had never once suffered anyone, not even her own father, to raise a hand to her. She was baffled to find herself weeping and begging for mercy like some opium-eating harlot being punished by her pimp -- and, deep in a locked room at the center of her mind, she was furious.
Nevertheless Heghar beat her, and she suffered herself to be beaten, because Jaceth willed it.
They couldn't see him. They had never seen him, though he'd been living in their house for several days now. Before that, he'd been living with the mayor, but making the wealthy man do strange things with his money had grown dull, and Jaceth had decided to experience domestic disharmony instead. Since the only couple in town already inclined to hitting fights was old and feeble, he preferred to make a new one. He'd chosen Heghar and Umai because he liked the smell of resin that filled their house.
He'd intended to make this play last longer. There was an alcove just off the kitchen that suited him perfectly; dark but clean, and no one went into it even before he arrived, so it wasn't hard to prevent anyone from running into him by accident. But Stiaan was coming, so he'd stepped up the schedule.
He hadn't decided yet whether Heghar would beat his wife to death. On the one hand, it would be a nice, dramatic ending to their story. On the other, he rather liked the idea of leaving them confused and justifying themselves. It would be a sort of experiment. He wanted to see whether they went on fighting like this, convinced that they were the sort of people who did so. It would depend, he supposed, on whether he remained here after Stiaan was dealt with.
As he pondered this, there was a knock at the door. Jaceth was so startled, he didn't even try to give them reactions in character, but let them stare at each other in dismay. There wasn't supposed to be a knock at the door; he couldn't sense anyone outside.
Just as he realized what must have happened, the door opened and Stiaan stepped in.
Of course; knowing Jaceth might fight him, Stiaan had displaced his presence, seeming to be much farther away than he was. That was like Stiaan.
But as Stiaan bowed a suave apology to the baffled couple, Jaceth began to be offended at the differences in him. He wasn't playing his part. Where was the diamond glitter, where was the floating cloud of ankle-length hair, where was the disregard for petty mortal concerns? Why did he have a mortal follower stepping into the house after him, an insolent mortal follower who couldn't keep his mouth shut in deference to the ancient Mara?
"Don't tell me he's one of those folks," the mortal said in Semnian, black brows knit, scratching at his grimy neck. "At least, he's sure not her."
"No," Stiaan said, turning to where Jaceth stood. And then, to Jaceth's horror, he actually rolled his eyes and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and said, in common-sounding, colloquial Darathi, "Come out of there, you creepy little voyeur. You've played with these people enough."
Jaceth hated it when people didn't follow the script.
The Areds gasped as Jaceth let go of the injunction to ignore him, and they saw him seemingly appear in the middle of their kitchen from thin air. The next breaths they took, Heghar began praying and Umai screamed. No doubt they thought Jaceth an undead thing, a vampire or a ghost; the blue-white tint of his skin looked very much like corpse pallor. He was dressed all in pale gray; his hands were covered with silk gloves; his black hair was punished for its tendency to curl by being oiled back into a tight queue; his eyes were like coals, scarlet and sullen.
"You're early," he whispered.
Stiaan's mortal gave a jerk and aborted a motion to reach for the swords strapped to his back. "Whoa," he said uncertainly. "Where'd you come from?"
Stiaan said, "Never mind that. We're leaving." He paused. When Jaceth didn't move, Stiaan's pale blue eyes flashed like ice in the sun, and his face went hard. "Now!" he snapped, and finally Jaceth began to feel that the script hadn't been abandoned entirely.
He drifted toward his maker, paused, decided to save his speech for when they reached whatever place Stiaan had chosen as their battleground. Drifted past and out the door. As he went by the mortal, he smelled, among the usual mortal stenches, and the reek of horse and leather and dust, a hint of Mara. So this was the halfbreed? Another disappointment.
The halfbreed followed him out. He heard Stiaan spellcasting, felt the wash of power as the elder Mara erased Jaceth's meddling from the couple's minds before following as well. Now Jaceth was beginning to be really angry.
The little town of Gyrivel was silent, its streets empty in the evening light; no doubt the neighbors were listening for another scream, or something to explain it. The air was cool, the street and house walls warm, the sun sinking redly behind the mountains. Jaceth turned to see where Stiaan would lead him, but Stiaan made no move to leave.
"Do you mean to do this in the street?" Jaceth whispered in disbelief.
After a moment's pause, Stiaan said wearily, "I suppose not. You intend to fight me, then."
"Of course."
"Choose your ground."
This was more like it. Jaceth started up the street toward the hill that overlooked the town.
* * *
Stiaan thumped Kastor on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"What?"
He realized he'd spoken Darathi. "Sorry," he said in Semnian. "I said I'll be back."
"I'll come along. Unless he's liable to start throwing fireballs?"
"No. Even if he had the power, he hasn't the temperament." Hands clasped behind his back, Stiaan started strolling in the direction Jaceth had gone, and Kastor fell into step beside him. "This is just a gesture. He knows he can't win, so he has to make his defeat something epic. Or tragic," he added after a moment's thought. "He might think he can make me hurt him. He'd probably enjoy nursing a sense of injustice for a few decades."
"How long will you bind him for?"
"A long time," Stiaan said firmly. "I think I'll begin with a hundred years. And if that isn't time enough to straighten out his twist, I'll bind him a hundred more, and a hundred more, until I know he's over that." He gestured back at the house they'd left.
"What was that, anyway?"
"I'm not exactly sure. He'd put some kind of suggestion in those people's minds, but I didn't take the time to analyze it. I just broke it. And planted one of my own, convincing them their strange behavior was caused by a ghost. They'll spend money on an unnecessary exorcism, but it was all I could think of."
"He just appeared out of nowhere. Scared the shit out of me."
"He was there all along, but he tricked your mind into ignoring him. Mind-magic of that sort is his specialty. He used to play his little games with the other vishira; he's strong enough to work his will on an unwary Mara, so mortals don't stand a chance."
Kastor nodded sagely. "So that's --" He paused to half-hop and curse under his breath as his heel skidded on gravel at the foot of the steep path that wound up the hill. He was tired from walking desert roads in black clothes and leather armor. He didn't cope well with even moderate heat.
"You don't have to come along."
"No, I want to." Watching the road more carefully, Kastor went on with his interrupted thought. "That's why Serifar was scared of him. He mentioned erasing some kind of nastiness from his mind."
"Oh yes, he did like to terrorize Serifar. Poor thing. Serifar was especially vulnerable to Jaceth's manipulations. The others learned to protect themselves, more or less, but he got Serifar every time. And then Serifar would cry like a baby when he saw what he'd done, whatever Jaceth had made him do, and come running to me to tattle. I got so damned sick of it, I sent Jaceth away again, even though I'd said I wouldn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, he's one of the oldest. The second oldest, now that I think of it. The second one I made. And the first I sent away. He annoyed me with his prodding and tinkering at all my wards and set-spells. He came back a few years later, all remorse and obedience. It's not that I fell for it, so much as that I didn't give a damn. The demon had its roots deep into me by then, and I was less inclined to prevent trouble, more inclined to punish it after the fact."
They reached the top of the hill. The rocky ground was bare of vegetation, wind-scoured. Jaceth stood at the center of the bare area, gloved hands laced before him. As Stiaan approached, Jaceth bowed slightly, like a duelist. He had the setting sun behind him. He'd placed himself for dramatic effect.
"I always knew you would come to match wills with me one day, Stiaan. I think you will find me a stronger opponent than you expect. Your arrogance has always been your weak spot, and this time --"
Stiaan interrupted his rehearsed-sounding speech with an arrow of will straight to the soul. And that should have been that.
But it wasn't.
Jaceth grunted and grimaced, wavering, but he resisted the binding. His defenses bowed, but they held.
Frowning, Stiaan poured more power into the attack. Again, the walls of Jaceth's mind shuddered, but again they held fast. Still more power, and more, and still Stiaan made no progress --
And suddenly, in a wash of mental vertigo, Stiaan understood what had happened. But it was too late to disengage. As the knowlege of his error dawned on his face, he saw Jaceth start to smile.
Next chapter