Out of the Darkness

Vorosmarty shuddered. “When you raise your children, do you spank them with swords?”

“No, but our children are not trying to kill us,” Fernao replied. “When our children grow up to be murderers, we do hang them.” The Gyongyosian mage sent him a resentful look. He pretended not to see.

As they got closer to the heart of Gyorvar, devastation grew worse. Only a few upthrusting charred sticks showed where wooden buildings had stood. Stone structures were more common. They went from looking burnt to looking slagged, as if the stone blocks from which they were built had begun to melt. A little later on, there was no doubt of what had happened to them: they looked like butter sculptures starting to sag on a hot day. The death stink got stronger.

“This was a great city once,” Vorosmarty said. “How long shall we be rebuilding it?” The carriage rattled over something in the middle of the road. Wreckage? A burnt body? Fernao didn’t want to know.

He said, “You should have thought of the risks you were taking when you went into this war. You should have had the sense to yield when you saw yourselves losing it.”

“Risks?” the Gyongyosian rumbled. “War has risks, aye. But this?” He shook his head. His beard seemed to bristle with indignation.

“For the past century and more, the thaumaturgical revolution has made war more horrid at the same time as it has made life better during times of peace,” Fernao said. “You Gyongyosians should have realized that. Yours was the only kingdom not of eastern Derlavai that kept its freedom and learned these arts itself.”

“We never imagined the stars had written . . . this for us,” Vorosmarty said. The carriage stopped. Vorosmarty opened the door. “Here we are in the heart of the city. Come out, representative of Kuusamo and Lagoas. Come see what your sorcery has wrought.”

Fernao got out and looked around. He wished he didn’t have to breathe. The smell was so thick, he was sure it would soak into the fabric of his tunic and kilt. Here where the sorcery had been strongest, the flames hottest and thickest, next to nothing remained standing. Buildings had melted and puddled. The sun sparkled off curves of resolidified stone as smooth as glass.

Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, something had been massive enough to stay partly upright despite everything the spell had done. Pointing toward those ruins, Fernao asked, “What was that?”

The look Vorosmarty gave him was so savage, he took an involuntary half step back. “What was that?” the Gyongyosian echoed. “Nothing much, out-lander--no, nothing much. Only the palace of the ekrekeks since time out of mind and the central communing place of the stars.” He scowled again, this time at himself. “This language does not let me say how much that means, or even the thousandth part of it.”

“May I go there?” Fernao asked.

“You are the conqueror. You may go where you please,” Vorosmarty replied. When Fernao started straight toward the ruined palace, though, his guide said, “You would be wise to stay on the streets, as best you can. Some of the melted stone is but a crust. Your foot may go through, as with thin ice, and you would cut yourself badly.”

“Thank you,” Fernao said, and then, “I did not suppose that would make you unhappy.”

“It would not,” Vorosmarty said frankly. “But you might blame me for not having warned you, and, since you are the conqueror, who knows what you might order done to me and to this land?”

Fernao hadn’t thought of that. You don’t make the best conqueror, do you?

he thought. He hadn’t had much practice for the role. Picking his way with care, he started toward what remained of the very heart of Gyorvar. When he got to the palace, he found people going in and out through an opening--a doorway, he supposed, though no sign of a door remained--in a wall. Vorosmarty said something in Gyongyosian. One of the men nearby answered back. “What does he say?” Fernao asked.

“This sergeant says he saw what you did to Becsehely,” Vorosmarty replied. “He says he wishes everyone would have heeded the warning.” The sergeant added something else. Again, Vorosmarty translated: “He says it is even worse close up than it was from the Kuusaman ship.”

Fernao ducked into the palace. Though the walls had held out the worst of the sorcerous fire, not much inside remained intact. Maybe the Gongs had already carried out what they could salvage. Maybe there hadn’t been much worth salvaging.

Vorosmarty said, “You did this to us, Lagoan, your folk and the Kuusamans. Now a new starless darkness walks the earth. One day, maybe, it will stop at Setubal.”

“I hope not,” Fernao said. “I hope we are coming out of the darkness of these years just past.” Vorosmarty held his peace, but he did not look convinced. Well, he wouldn‘t, Fernao thought. Somehow, that left him less happy, less secure, than he would have liked after such a triumph.