Forbidden Magic Read online

  Skins of Prophecy

  “You will seek that which cannot be had and find disappointment. But you will gain much; more than you lose. You will learn those things you reject and find that friendship is the strongest bond.

  “There is water—beware the water, Calandryll! You must cross it to find what you seek, though men say it does not exist. There is danger, but you will be protected, not alone. There is a teacher, though you may not welcome his lessons. Trust him! And one will come after, also to be trusted.

  “You will travel far and see things no southern man has seen, perhaps no man at all. There is … No! I cannot see it … It hides behind itself. It is forbidden … I cannot …”

  The voice grew harsh, choking. Reba began to cough, and the strange spell was broken.

  Alarmed, Calandryll sprang to his feet….

  BANTAM BOOKS BY ANGUS WELLS

  Book of the Kingdoms #1: Wrath of Ashar

  Book of the Kingdoms #2: The Usurper

  Book of the Kingdoms #3: The Way Beneath

  The Godwars #1: Forbidden Magic

  The Godwars #2: Dark Magic

  The Godwars #3: Wild Magic

  Lords of the Sky

  Exiles Saga #1: Exile’s Children

  Exiles Saga #2: Exile’s Challenge

  The Guardian

  For Liz and Laurence, Linda, Sylvia, Nick and Rob,

  who joined in battle with the witch …

  And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but

  The truth in masquerade.

  BYLATH DEN KARYNTH, Domm of Secca, Lord of the Eastern Reaches and Chosen of Dera, stared moodily from the embrasure, his expression saturnine, as if the breeze that skirled about the palace walls enhanced his naturally dour temperament. Fingers calloused by a sword’s hilt tugged at his leonine beard, the yellow streaked with grey now, like his hair, and fell in a fist to the stone of the sill. Below him, on the sanded practice ground, his sons worked under the vigilant eye of Secca’s weaponsmaster, Torvah Banul, the younger the object of the Domm’s dissatisfaction. He grunted, nodding, as Tobias parried a cut of Torvah’s, riposting to land his blunted blade neatly against the older man’s ribs, eliciting a smile of approval from his father: Tobias was cut from the same cloth; the den Karynth blood ran true in his veins.

  Of Calandryll, the Domm was less sure. It seemed too often the boy was of stranger stock—though Bylath had no doubt he sprang from the same seed—as though he were a throwback or a changeling, for all he bore the characteristic yellow hair of the den Karynth line, his body beneath the heavy padding of the protective gambeson muscular and tall like his father and brother. It was in his attitude rather than in any physical differences; it was obvious as Torvah turned toward him, gesturing with his sword. Where Tobias sprang eagerly to battle, evincing a ready joy in such manly arts, Calandryll was lackadaisical, negligent; Bylath sighed as the word effete entered his thoughts. He was skilled enough with the blade, but he showed no enjoyment of its use, no will to win. He answered Torvah’s probing attack with a halfhearted parry that left his flank open to a thrust, avoiding that only by dint of agile footwork, then awaiting Torvah, rather than taking the fight to the weaponsmaster. It seemed the aggression that was so much a part of Bylath’s nature had entered Tobias alone, leaving none to spare for Calandryll. Bylath’s hands clenched in angry fists as he watched. If Calandryll only showed the application he devoted to books on the practice ground; if he only spent the time he gave to useless scholarship learning the arts of governance, there might be hope for him. But he showed no interest in the duties of his bloodline: had he not informed Bylath only yesterday that his dearest wish was to be left alone with his books? That he preferred the palace archives to the practice sand? The Domm ground his beard between his teeth, a decision forming. Such bookish ways were suitable to philosophers or pedagogues, not to one of High Blood.

  He turned from the window, drawing his robe tighter about him as he stalked the balcony, Torvah’s admonitory shout ringing like confirmation in his ears.

  “Dera’s love, Calandryll! You hold a blade, not a book!”

  He strode to where the balcony descended in a winding stairway to the lower levels of the palace, his expression sending servants scurrying from his path, straightening the rigid backs of the guardsmen stationed along the corridors, and came to a door of black wood, inscribed with arcane symbols of scarlet and green. Thrusting it open he paused, eyes narrowing in the dim light cast by nine smoking torches set in sconces of black metal about the walls of the windowless chamber, their effluvium pinching his nostrils, the flickering shadows they cast seeming to hide things Setter unseen. At the center of the room a man looked up from behind a dusty table on which rested several skulls, the mummified remains of a blind cat, and a jar containing the tiny corpse of a stillborn child. He was small and bald, his eyes birdlike above a wart-infested nose, blinking nervously as he rose to greet the Domm.

  “Lord Bylath? You seek an augury?”

  Bylath grunted an affirmative, wondering if the paraphernalia displayed was necessary, or merely artifice.

  The man came from behind the table, scuttling to close the door, his black robe flapping, prompting Bylath to think of spiders, or carrion birds. For all that he was Domm of Secca, and consequently ruler of the most powerful city in all eastern Lysse, he felt uncomfortable in the presence of the necromancer.

  “I have made a decision regarding my sons, Gomus,” he declared. “I would have it confirmed.”

  Gomus nodded, dragging a stool from the darkness; sweeping a sleeve across its surface. Bylath glanced at the proffered seat with a look of distaste and settled himself. Gomus moved to the far side of the table and studied the Domm across the piled skulls.

  “And it is?” he asked, his voice papery as his yellowed skin, as though neither had seen day’s light in too long a time.

  “Tobias must inherit,” Bylath said. “That’s obvious. I would make Calandryll a priest.”

  “A priest?” Gomus murmured. “He will not welcome such office. The priests of Dera have no time for books.”

  “What he wants has nothing to do with this,” snapped the Domm. “Did he show more aptitude for the blade I’d send him to Forshold; but he’s no soldier.”

  “No,” agreed the necromancer diplomatically.

  “And there’s no room in the palace for a scholar-prince,” Bylath continued, seeming unaware of the brief interruption, “his presence would threaten Tobias—there are families enough would see the den Karynth brought down. I’d not give them a puppet to use against my announced heir.”

  “Surely Calandryll would never lend himself to such treachery,” Gomus murmured. “He’s bookish, yes; but never a traitor.”

  The Domm made an angry gesture, the movement causing something skulking in the shadows to hiss. “Not willingly,” he agreed, “but his head’s so firmly in the clouds he’d likely find himself used unwittingly.”

  “I think you underestimate him,” Gomus ventured.

  Bylath snorted; the necromancer smiled deprecatorily.

  “And for all he’s a milksop, I’d not see him slain,” the Domm went on. “There’s little love lost between him and his brother, and should Tobias consider him a threat he’d not hesitate to use the Chaipaku.”

  “No,” Gomus murmured, nodding vigorously.

  “As a priest he’d be no threat,” Bylath said. “As a priest he must renounce all worldy ties.”

  “Including his books,” Gomus said; then frowned. “What of marriage, Lord Bylath? Does he not entertain hopes in that direction?”

  “He makes cow’s eyes at Nadama den Ecvin. But that’s no more than puppy love, and I’ve other plans for that maiden—Tobias favors her and she returns his affection. I’d s
ee them wed and bind the den Ecvins to the den Karynth.”

  “A wise move,” Gomus complimented. Bylath grunted, fleshy lips twisting in a sour smile.

  “Wise moves secure bloodlines, sage. With the den Ecvins joined by marriage, Tobias will stand inviolate.”

  “And you would have me cast an augury on this?” Gomus asked.

  “I’d know where the spirits stand,” Bylath nodded.

  “Your wish,” Gomus simpered, “is my command.”

  “Yes,” said Bylath, wiping at eyes rendered tearful by the pungent smoke.

  He watched as the necromancer busied himself with the tools of his occult trade, rising to bring a stubby candle of nigrescent wax from a shelf, a phial of dull green jade from a locked trunk, a stick of scarlet chalk from a drawer. He cleared a space on the cluttered table and selected a bleached skull, surrounding it with a chalk circle, inscribing symbols in a minute hand around the circumference, another, thicker, circle to contain them. Unstoppering the phial, he took a pinch of yellow powder that he sprinkled between the fleshless jaws, into the sockets of the eyes. He set the candle atop the cranium and lit a taper from a torch, using it to light the candle.

  Pale greenish light flickered and Gomus passed his hands through the flame, murmuring softly. The candle began to melt, glistening ebony wax dripping over the bone. As it touched the eye sockets and the jaw, they glowed a dull red, as though fire burned within the empty cranium.

  “The Lord Bylath, Domm of Secca, asks for guidance,” the necromancer intoned. “Do you who are dead hear him?”

  “I hear him.”

  The answer was the beat of sullen waves on a forsaken shore; a cold wind rustling the leafless branches of a withered tree. Bylath shivered; suddenly cold.

  “Ask,” Gomus advised.

  Bylath cleared his throat: familiarity with the forms of necromancy did nothing to render the asking easy.

  “I would see my elder son, Tobias den Karynth, secure,” he said hoarsely. “I would marry him to Nadama den Ecvin.”

  “He shall wed Nadama den Ecvin; he shall be Domm of Secca after you.”

  The voice was everywhere and nowhere. Bylath heard it in the pulsing of his blood and the pounding of his heart, rather than through his ears. It seemed to reverberate in the tissue of his flesh; he shuddered.

  “And I would make my younger son, Calandryll, a priest,” he said.

  “Calandryll shall serve Dera.”

  The timber of the voice shifted: Bylath wondered if he heard dry laughter.

  “He will offer no threat to Tobias?”

  “Tobias shall inherit what you leave,” came the whispery answer. “Calandryll shall not contest him.”

  Bylath realized that, despite the chill he felt, he sweated. “My thanks,” he said.

  “I was summoned—I had no choice but to answer. I have no choice save truth—I tell you what you want to hear.”

  The stub of candle liquefied, black wax coating the skull. The wick flickered and went out; the red light behind the eye sockets died; the voice trailed into silence. Bylath shook himself.

  “That last,” he murmured. “What did that mean?”

  The necromancer shrugged.

  “The dead are enigmatic.”

  “But it was the truth?”

  Gomus nodded.

  “As you heard—the dead have no choice save truth.”

  “Then I am confirmed.” Bylath rose; anxious to be gone now. “Tobias shall inherit and Calandryll shall be a priest. My thanks, Gomus.”

  “I exist only to serve,” murmured the necromancer, smiling obsequiously as Bylath hurried from his red-lit chamber.

  THOUGH spring had barely touched the coast of Lysse and waves still winter-strong beat irritably against the harbor walls a warm breeze pervaded the streets of Secca, rendering Calandryll acutely conscious of the disguising cloak he affected. It was the least obtrusive he could find among the many displayed in the extensive wardrobes of the Domm’s palace, but still more opulent than those few he had seen as he made his furtive way from his father’s halls, and made the more noticeable by the general absence of such garb in the narrow alleyways of the Seers Gate.

  Several times he had become aware of eyes upon him and wondered if he was recognized, or noted for the richness of his dress, hunching in on himself, the deep blue folds of the cloak drawn close across his chest as he hurried past the observers, tempted to cover his thick blond hair but aware that a raised hood on so warm a morning must only call down additional attention. Bylath or Tobias would have been instantly recognized, though it was unlikely either the Domm or his elder son would have ventured to this part of the city unless on some official errand, and unthinkable that they would come alone, unaccompanied by armed guard or servants. The younger son, however, was less known and, he felt, considerably less conspicuous. The Domm had told him often enough that save for the yellow hair inherited from his mother, and a general similarity of feature, he lacked those characteristics that set the den Karynth apart from the populace of the city they governed, and certainly he lacked his father’s regal air of massive confidence or his brother’s stature; so perhaps he might succeed in reaching his objective without word returning to the Domm.

  He hoped so, for Bylath would undoubtedly take it amiss that his younger son should seek out a spaewife among the common folk; and take it worse should he learn the reason.

  Calandryll grinned uneasily at the thought, torn between fear of the Domm’s anger and the spice of defiance.

  There were seers enough resident within the palace. Diviners of the future in sundry arcane manners: the interpretation of entrails, the casting of rune-writ bones, the reading of cards; an astrologer, a necromancer, a chiromancer; and the Domm consulted them all. Calandryll might have gone to any of them to obtain a prediction of his future, but then, without doubt, word of that small rebellion would have been given to Bylath, and he did not want that. Nor was he by any means sure that such a prediction would be honest: he suspected the palace soothsayers tailored their auguries to the desires of the Domm. He wanted honesty, unbiased, not hindered by fear of his father’s displeasure.

  So he had awaited an opportune moment, disguised himself as best he was able, and slipped from the palace to make his way through Secca to the Seers Gate.

  Now he reached the maze of passages that wound below the city walls, close by the harbor, and paused, studying the buildings confronting him. Like all the structures contained within the ramparts, they stood two stories high at most, flat-roofed, with winter-stripped vines and budding shrubbery visible above the retaining terrace walls, window shutters thrown open to permit entry to the promise of spring carried on the warm breeze. This close to the harbor the promise was accompanied by the smell of fish, and tar, and the odor of garbage was not entirely concealed by the sewers Calandryll’s greatgrandfather had ordered built.

  Those smells, however, only added to the excitement he felt, and he savored them as eagerly as the bouquet of some prized Aldan vintage. The sons of the Domm had little truck with the ordinary life of their city, their own being confined largely to the palace, to the endless preparation for future duties, and the mansions of Secca’s aristocracy. Tobias, Calandryll was sure, would have found such smells offensive, would be horrified that his brother could take pleasure in them. Calandryll smiled at the thought and strode determinedly beneath the quarter marker hung on slightly rusted chains across the street.

  A few passersby glanced at him, but he was too eager now to worry about recognition, and most of the folk he saw were sufficiently engrossed in their own business that they paid him scant attention. He moved down the narrow street, studying the frontages for the sign of Reba. She, according to those servants he had—discretely, he hoped!—questioned, was the most reliable spaewife to be found beyond the confines of the palace, and her mark was a crescent moon encircled by stars. He set a hand on the purse at his belt, his fingers brushing the unfamiliar hilt of the shortsword he wore, the
touch renewing his nervousness, reminding him that the poorer quarters of Secca were, even under his father’s stern rule, not entirely safe. That, he thought, his smile growing rueful, was something Tobias would not have worried about: for all his arrogance and pride, the Domm’s elder son was an excellent swordsman; which Calandryll was most definitely not.

  He shook the doubt away and continued past the stuccoed fronts. He had come too far to let such weak-spined concerns stay him now, and surely footpads and thieves preferred the darker hours, when they might more easily evade the watchmen. He would find Reba and have her read his future. Then he would have choices to make, based on firmer footing than his own emotions.

  He pressed on, ignoring the blandishments of those diviners not busy with clients, seeking the star-circled crescent.

  He found it where an alley bisected the street, suspended from a pole of dark iron, its wood ancient, the silver of the moon yellowed by age, three stars hidden beneath the white smears of birds’ droppings. It was an unimpressive sign, though no less so than the building itself. That was narrow, one story high, with weary vines trailing from the roof, a single window blank beside a closed door of stained wood, the hinges pitted with rust. The wall that faced the alley was devoid of openings and inscribed with graffiti of obscene imagination, the frontage pale blue stucco, pocked like a diseased face, revealing patches of bare, sand-colored stone.

  Calandryll swallowed the doubt he felt and tapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  The voice was faint, coming from deep inside the house, and somehow younger than he had expected, softer, almost musical: he pushed the door open and went in.

  Darkness veiled his eyes and he fumbled warily for his sword, hearing the door thud shut behind him, his nostrils pinching at the cloying scent of incense. He blinked, trying hard to see into the gloom and finding it impossible. He reached out with his left hand, his right still on the sword’s hilt, and felt rough plaster beneath his fingers.