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No witchboy had ever spoken words of Power to Soran. He had never seen the gestures of high magic. Several of the creatures had fought to get away; one injured him with a dirk. Another shot him. But aside from a few quite feeble acts with proved they had inherited some fragment of the Power, none had offered anything in the way of enchantment.
The last one he brought in called himself Pahrys, and could conjure fire, make it dance in his palms. Soran cornered him in the rambling shacks where Zeheft uncoiled itself into the orchards and fields. He captured the young man in a street filled with hot, white sunlight and onlookers, all of them Zehefti, who would not help him when he begged.
Pahrys fought, in his own way. He set alight to Soran’s cloak, which scorched the witchfinder’s forearms and legs, but as soon as Soran had him bound and wrapped in the same half-charred cloak, he was powerless. If he conjured fire then, he would only burn himself, and he wisely lay still over the shoulders of Soran’s horse. He had no other magic to fight with, and no physical weapon.
The memories were so sharp in Soran’s mind, they might have been etched with acid. He took them apart, grain by grain, as he strode toward the stable, and the closer he looked at the evidence of his eyes, his senses, the less faith he placed in the priests who had tutored him.
The passages were silent, empty, as night gathered over Vayal. He had believed he would make it out of the city unhindered, until a shape detached itself from the shadows. It bowed, and Druyus’s voice said,
“Baobo told me the news, my lord. Your Zeheftiman is a witchboy … of course, you knew this all along, did you not? Doubtlessly, it is the reason for the hunting that has occupied Baobo’s men since morning. I look forward to the Zehefti’s company.”
“His company?” Soran spat. “All you want is to get those rapacious hands of yours on something young and beautiful to be hurt, to be broken, for your amusement. You disgust me. Get out of my way.”
“Still,” Druyus said as he stepped aside, “He will come to me.”
“If the Zeheftimen Baobo has found is the same individual,” Soran said curtly, “I shall stand by my duty and fetch him in.” He swung on the priest. “But you’ll not have this one to torture and murder, Druyus. You may question him for what secrets he knows, and that is all.”
“Before he is sentenced,” Druyus added with placating sweetness. “My lord. If the Zehefti tells his secrets, he will live, though the line of Diomedas ends with him, as is the law. Will you have the eunuch, my lord prince, after the ritual?”
Soran’s belly churned with fury. Druyus would never know how close he came to being separated from his head -- and yet he spoke only the truth. For a Zeheftiman who was proven, by evidence or confession, to be descended from the royal line of Diomedas, the sentence was death or gelding. The law of Vayal allowed for no possibility that the seed and the Power would be passed on. Faunos must also know this. How many brothers and cousins had he lost? Soran wondered as he glared at Druyus, how many of them had he fetched back to Vayal himself.
The last one, Pahrys, died swearing there were no more at all, but till the end Druyus had been convinced he was lying. Perhaps Faunos believed himself to be the last, and perhaps he was. Maybe the One had been spirited out of the Empire and was growing to manhood in the lands of the Keltoi, the Vanir, the Jaymacan. This would have been Soran’s solution to the challenge of the hunters, the witchfinders: run away, run far, fast, and don’t return.
“I’ll have the eunuch, when you’re all quite finished with him,” Soran said between clenched teeth, “and I’ll see the ritual is performed by the most gifted surgeon from Chios, even if I have to take the witchboy there myself, to have it done. I’ll not let him be hurt or humiliated in the process, damn you.”
“One admires your dedication, my lord,” Druyus purred.
He was mocking, needling, and Soran’s hand itched to lash out. “And as for the interrogation,” he snarled, “you won’t have him alone, Druyus. Not for one moment. There are ways to have the truth out of a man without bruising his skin or letting one drop of his blood. I know this as surely as you do, but you choose to forget it, and my father lets you.” His voice had the dangerous edge of broken glass.
The priest had the good sense to go down into a grovel at Soran’s feet. “My lord, forgive me. I only perform the task assigned to me, as do we all.”
“Get out of my way. I’ve no time for you and your stupidity.” Soran stepped around him and strode on toward the flicker of lamplight from the end of the passage.
He had already heard the stablemen’s gruff voices, and the high-pitched protests of a stallion who was notorious in the palace. Few men could handle him, and of those who could, fewer yet chose to. Soran did not like the horse, but he respected him. He had spirit, he had not yet surrendered to the will of men -- and he ran like the wind.
Selena had just showed her white face over the hills in the west as he stepped out into the torchlit courtyard. He was pulling on the leather gauntlets as the horse was led out, under the high potted palms. The night air was still, warm, fragrant; the sky was the color of a peacock fan.
The old stableman handed over the reins, dropped his head and clasped his hands politely. “Take care, my lord prince. The animal is in a fine temper tonight -- there’s a mare in heat in the stable and he doesn’t want to be parted from his heart’s desire.”
“Is this so?” Soran stroked the stallion’s long, bony nose. “Well, my boy, you have my most ardent sympathies, for this is an aggravation you and I share! Shall we run? Soonest out, soonest back … and then, perhaps we can both be reunited with our desires. Yes?
The horse tossed his head and snorted, and before he could begin to sidestep, Soran swung up into the saddle. He was no lightweight, and under his solid burden the animal was more tractable. He shortened the reins and turned the stallion’s head toward the west gate. Druyus was still watching, but Soran ignored the priest utterly, and urged the horse to bolt.
The last one he brought in called himself Pahrys, and could conjure fire, make it dance in his palms. Soran cornered him in the rambling shacks where Zeheft uncoiled itself into the orchards and fields. He captured the young man in a street filled with hot, white sunlight and onlookers, all of them Zehefti, who would not help him when he begged.
Pahrys fought, in his own way. He set alight to Soran’s cloak, which scorched the witchfinder’s forearms and legs, but as soon as Soran had him bound and wrapped in the same half-charred cloak, he was powerless. If he conjured fire then, he would only burn himself, and he wisely lay still over the shoulders of Soran’s horse. He had no other magic to fight with, and no physical weapon.
The memories were so sharp in Soran’s mind, they might have been etched with acid. He took them apart, grain by grain, as he strode toward the stable, and the closer he looked at the evidence of his eyes, his senses, the less faith he placed in the priests who had tutored him.
The passages were silent, empty, as night gathered over Vayal. He had believed he would make it out of the city unhindered, until a shape detached itself from the shadows. It bowed, and Druyus’s voice said,
“Baobo told me the news, my lord. Your Zeheftiman is a witchboy … of course, you knew this all along, did you not? Doubtlessly, it is the reason for the hunting that has occupied Baobo’s men since morning. I look forward to the Zehefti’s company.”
“His company?” Soran spat. “All you want is to get those rapacious hands of yours on something young and beautiful to be hurt, to be broken, for your amusement. You disgust me. Get out of my way.”
“Still,” Druyus said as he stepped aside, “He will come to me.”
“If the Zeheftimen Baobo has found is the same individual,” Soran said curtly, “I shall stand by my duty and fetch him in.” He swung on the priest. “But you’ll not have this one to torture and murder, Druyus. You may question him for what secrets he knows, and that is all.”
“Before he is sentenced,” Druyus added with placating sweetness. “My lord. If the Zehefti tells his secrets, he will live, though the line of Diomedas ends with him, as is the law. Will you have the eunuch, my lord prince, after the ritual?”
Soran’s belly churned with fury. Druyus would never know how close he came to being separated from his head -- and yet he spoke only the truth. For a Zeheftiman who was proven, by evidence or confession, to be descended from the royal line of Diomedas, the sentence was death or gelding. The law of Vayal allowed for no possibility that the seed and the Power would be passed on. Faunos must also know this. How many brothers and cousins had he lost? Soran wondered as he glared at Druyus, how many of them had he fetched back to Vayal himself.
The last one, Pahrys, died swearing there were no more at all, but till the end Druyus had been convinced he was lying. Perhaps Faunos believed himself to be the last, and perhaps he was. Maybe the One had been spirited out of the Empire and was growing to manhood in the lands of the Keltoi, the Vanir, the Jaymacan. This would have been Soran’s solution to the challenge of the hunters, the witchfinders: run away, run far, fast, and don’t return.
“I’ll have the eunuch, when you’re all quite finished with him,” Soran said between clenched teeth, “and I’ll see the ritual is performed by the most gifted surgeon from Chios, even if I have to take the witchboy there myself, to have it done. I’ll not let him be hurt or humiliated in the process, damn you.”
“One admires your dedication, my lord,” Druyus purred.
He was mocking, needling, and Soran’s hand itched to lash out. “And as for the interrogation,” he snarled, “you won’t have him alone, Druyus. Not for one moment. There are ways to have the truth out of a man without bruising his skin or letting one drop of his blood. I know this as surely as you do, but you choose to forget it, and my father lets you.” His voice had the dangerous edge of broken glass.
The priest had the good sense to go down into a grovel at Soran’s feet. “My lord, forgive me. I only perform the task assigned to me, as do we all.”
“Get out of my way. I’ve no time for you and your stupidity.” Soran stepped around him and strode on toward the flicker of lamplight from the end of the passage.
He had already heard the stablemen’s gruff voices, and the high-pitched protests of a stallion who was notorious in the palace. Few men could handle him, and of those who could, fewer yet chose to. Soran did not like the horse, but he respected him. He had spirit, he had not yet surrendered to the will of men -- and he ran like the wind.
Selena had just showed her white face over the hills in the west as he stepped out into the torchlit courtyard. He was pulling on the leather gauntlets as the horse was led out, under the high potted palms. The night air was still, warm, fragrant; the sky was the color of a peacock fan.
The old stableman handed over the reins, dropped his head and clasped his hands politely. “Take care, my lord prince. The animal is in a fine temper tonight -- there’s a mare in heat in the stable and he doesn’t want to be parted from his heart’s desire.”
“Is this so?” Soran stroked the stallion’s long, bony nose. “Well, my boy, you have my most ardent sympathies, for this is an aggravation you and I share! Shall we run? Soonest out, soonest back … and then, perhaps we can both be reunited with our desires. Yes?
The horse tossed his head and snorted, and before he could begin to sidestep, Soran swung up into the saddle. He was no lightweight, and under his solid burden the animal was more tractable. He shortened the reins and turned the stallion’s head toward the west gate. Druyus was still watching, but Soran ignored the priest utterly, and urged the horse to bolt.
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