Wizard of the Winds (aka When the Gods Slept) Read online

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  Wildside

  www.wildsidepress.com

  Copyright ©Copyright 1998, 2004 by Allan Cole

  First published by Del Rey, 1998.

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  WIZARD OF THE WINDS

  For Kathryn

  Think, in this battered caravansari

  Whose doorways are alternate night and day

  How sultan after sultan with his pomp

  Abode his destined hour and went his way

  The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

  Edward Fitzgerald Translation

  Part One

  When The Gods Slept

  PROLOGUE

  STRANGER ON A HILL

  The villagers fear him.

  They draw lots each day to see who must fill his beggar's bowl.

  The loser creeps up the hill trembling and clutching a talisman. The stranger knows they fear the evil eye so he doesn't look when the approach is made. He makes no sound or movement until the deed is done and the villager flees as if there were a dervish at his heels.

  The villagers think the stranger is a mad priest and curse the day he came to hide in these hills.

  He's not mad and he is no priest. But he lets them believe what they like. If his true identity were revealed the village treasury would soon be bursting with gold. For the stranger is a fugitive from the King. Safar Timura, who was once Grand Wazier to King Protarus, is hunted by him now.

  They were blood oath brothers. Safar sat by his friend's throne and gave him counsel and exorcised the devils troubling his sleep. Several times he saved the King's life. He was rewarded with lands and palaces and jewels and more honors than most men have ever dreamed.

  When the history of King Protarus is written they'll say it was Lord Timura who betrayed him. They'll say Safar gambled and lost all for love.

  To the first he pleads innocent. It's Safar's view it was the King who betrayed him. As for the second he admits guilt. And it is for that crime Protarus wants his head. But for the King's offense Safar demands more.

  And he will have his payment—if the king doesn't catch him first.

  Safar can see his enemy's city from his lonely post. At night, under the swirling Demon Moon, he can see the lights of Zanzair blur the stars. See the smoke from the foundries and kitchens rise up each morning to haze the day. And he can see the King's Grand Palace quite clearly, its windows a rosy glow in the dawn.

  He models the palace in clay of the purest white—skillfully forming the towers between wet palms, etching the designs on the parapets with his silver witch's knife. He whispers potter's spells as he shapes the domes and pillars. Breathing his hate into the clay.

  At night he wraps the model in wet leaves and sets it aside to await the new day. He empties the beggar's bowl, then wraps himself against the chill in a black mourning cloak. At dawn he begins anew.

  When the palace is done and the great spell is cast Safar Timura's revenge will be complete.

  Then he'll depart that lonely hill. He'll flee across deserts and grasslands and wide rocky plains to the mountains of his birth.

  Where the snowy passes carry the high caravans to clear horizons.

  The place he should never have left.

  The place where this tale begins.

  CHAPTER ONE

  VALLEY OF THE CLOUDS

  I t was a time when the world was large and dreams were small. Few ships strayed from the four great turtles who bore the mountains and plains across the seas. Humankind and demonkind alike brooded under the faded banners of kings who'd ruled too long. Borders were no more distant than a fast march could secure. All who dwelt beyond huddled in armed settlements to keep thieves and beasts at bay.

  It was an uneasy time, a time crying out for change. Royal wizards studied the stars for signs to reassure their masters. Subjects gathered in secret to implore the gods to rid them of those same masters.

  But the gods gave no clue of their intentions. The starry wheel where the gods slept in their ten holy realms churned onward year after year, heedless to all pleas.

  Then the portent came. It was not from the slumbering gods but from the molten depths of the world itself. And it was a boy, not a master wizard, who first marked the sign.

  That boy was Safar Timura.

  He lived in the land known as Esmir, the Turtle of The Middle Seas. It was a land where demons faced humans across the Forbidden Desert. Only an ancient curse and constant internal warfare kept those ancestral enemies from overrunning and slaughtering the other.

  In the demon city of Zanzair, however, King Manacia and his sorcerers plotted and waited for the right moment. Although humans were greater in number, Manacia knew their magic was weak and their leaders cowardly. And he yearned for the day when he'd make their corpses a staircase to a grander throne.

  To achieve his dreams he pored over ancient maps and tomes and consulted many oracles. Then he created the greatest oracle of all, sacrificing five thousand human slaves in the process.

  * * * *

  The human head was mounted on a metal post in the center of Manacia's courtroom. The eyes were closed. The mouth slack. The skin ghastly.

  Manacia cast his most powerful spell and then commanded: “Speak, O Brother of the Shades. What is the key to my heart's desire? What road do I take, what passage do I seek, to win the throne of the King of Kings?"

  The head's eyes came open, blazing in hate and agony. Stiff lips formed a word:

  "Kyrania,” the head croaked, sounding like an old raven with its mouth full of gore.

  "What place is that?” the king demanded.

  "Kyrania,” the head croaked again.

  The whole court looked on, demon jaws parting in anticipation, as the king jabbed a long sharp talon at an ancient wall map of the human lands.

  "Where do I find this ... Kyrania?” he asked.

  "The Valley of the Clouds,” the head answered. And then its eyes dulled and its mouth sagged back into death.

  "Speak!” the king ordered, casting another mighty spell. But it was no use. The oracle was emptied of its power.

  The Demon King turned to his assembled wizards and advisors. “Find me this place,” he thundered. “Find me this Kyrania!...

  "...This Valley of the Clouds!"

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  A thousand miles distant Safar Timura and his people toiled the land and tended their flocks in relative peace. They lived high above the troubles of the world and had grown to think they were of small concern.

  Their valley was so remote it appeared on few maps. And those were jealously held by the merchant princes who transported their goods across the Gods’ Divide, which separated the ancient human kingdoms of Walaria and Caspan.

  The valley was known as Kyrania—meaning, in the language of Safar's people, “Valley of the Clouds."

  It was a bountiful place and each spring and summer the valley became a bowl of blossoms and fruit cradled high in the craggy range they called The Bride And Six Maids. The name came from seven graceful peaks shaped like slender young women. From the south they appeared to march in an eternal procession. The tallest and most graceful promontory was in the lead and to all Kyranians this peak was The Bride because she was always covered with snow and veiled in lacy clouds. Although th
e valley was so high strangers sometimes found it difficult to draw enough breath, it was sheltered by the maidenly peaks and the weather was nearly always mild.

  Filling half the valley was the holy lake of Our Lady Felakia and sometimes pilgrims traveled with the caravans to pay homage to that goddess of purity and health and to drink from the curative waters. They gathered to be blessed at the ancient temple, set on the eastern shore and so small and unimportant it was attended by only one old priest. Twice a year flocks of birds stopped at the lake to rest on their seasonal journeys. No one knew where they came from or where they went but they were always welcome visitors—filling the air with their song and the cooking hearths with their roasted flesh.

  The people of Kyrania grew barley and corn and beans, irrigating the fields with water from the lake. Olive and fruit orchards also abounded, but the growing season was short so the Kyranians placed great value on their goat herds. In the spring and summer Safar and the boys would lead them into the mountains to graze on tender shoots. When winter came the goats huddled in stables beneath the people's homes, eating stored grain and keeping the families warm with the heat of their bodies.

  All those things, which might seem trivial and even dull to city dwellers, were of prime importance to Safar and his people. They made up their talk, their dreams and all the rhythms of life.

  In his own way—the way of Kyrania—Safar was royally born. He was the son of a potter and in Kyrania such men as his father were second only to the village priest in importance. His father's father had been a potter as well, and his father before him. It had always been so for the Timura clan and many generations of Kyranian women had balanced Timura water jugs on their heads as they made the hip-swaying journey to the lake and back. All food in the village was cooked in Timura pots or stored in Timura jars, which were sealed with clay and buried in the ground for winter. Spirits were fermented in Timura jugs, bottled in Timura vessels and it was said all drink tasted best when sipped from Timura cups and bowls. When the caravans arrived Timura pottery was more sought after than even the few fresh camels and llamas the villagers kept to resupply the merchant masters.

  When the troubles came Safar was being trained to succeed his father as a practitioner of that once most sacred of all the arts. To accomplish this was Safar's sole ambition. But as a wise one once said—"If you want the make the gods laugh ... tell them your plans."

  The day that marked the end of those youthful ambitions began well before first light, as did all days in Kyrania. It was early spring and the mornings were still cold and one of his sisters had to bang on his sleeping platform with a broom handle to rouse him from his warm feather mattress.

  He grumbled as he broke away from a dream of swimming in warm lake waters with nubile maidens. He was just seventeen summers—an age when such dreams are remarkably vivid and nearly as frequent as the grumblings at the unfairness of life.

  Then he heard Naya, the family's best milking goat, complaining in the stable below. She was the sweetest of animals and he hated to think of her suffering. Safar leaped from the platform onto the polished planks that made the floor of the main living area. He dragged out the trunk where he kept his belongings and hastily pulled on clothes—baggy leather trousers, pullover shirt and heavy work boots. His mother was already at the hearth stirring handfuls of dried apple into the savory barley porridge that would make his breakfast.

  She clucked her tongue to chide him for being tardy, but then smiled and gave him a hunk of bread spread with pear jam to tide him over until the milking was done. Safar was the middle child but the only boy of his parents’ six children, so he was lovingly and deliberately spoiled by his mother and sisters.

  "You'd better hurry, Safar,” his mother warned. “Your father will be back for his breakfast soon."

  Safar knew his father would be in the adjoining shop inspecting the results of the previous day's firing. The elder Timura, whose name was Khadji, preferred to have the family together at mealtimes. It would be especially important to him this morning. There had been a late-night meeting of the Council of Elders and Khadji would be anxious to report the news.

  Mind buzzing with curiosity, mouth full of bread and jam, Safar thundered down the ladder and lit the fat lamps. He got out several pots made of his father's purest clay and glazed a dazzling white. As usual he tended Naya first. Her milk was delicious and his mother frequently accused him of squirting more into his mouth than in the pot.

  "Why am I always to blame when something goes wrong around here?” he'd protest.

  "Because you've got some on your chin, my little thief,” she'd say.

  Safar was always taken in, giving his chin a reflexive wipe and making the whole family howl at his embarrassment.

  "Don't ever decide to become a bandit, Safar,” his father would joke. “The master of the first caravan you rob is certain to catch you. Then the only thing we'd have left of our son would be his head on a post."

  Naya seemed more anxious that morning than an overly full udder should warrant. When Safar removed the canvas bag kept tied about her teats for cleanliness’ sake he saw several angry sores. He checked the bag and saw it was frayed on one side. The rough area had rubbed against her udder all night. The sores would fester quickly in the damp spring.

  "Don't fret, little mother,” he murmured. “Safar will fix you up."

  He looked about to make certain there were no witnesses. His sisters had gone to fetch water from the lake so besides the goats and other animals the stable area was empty. Safar scratched his head, thinking.

  His eyes fell on the lamp beside the stool. He dipped up thick, warm fat with his fingers and rubbed it gently on Naya's udder. Then he made up a little spell and whispered it as he dipped up more oil and coaxed it gently over the sores.

  Rest easy,

  Little mother;

  Safar is here.

  There is no pain,

  No wound to trouble you.

  Rest easy

  Little mother;

  Safar is here.

  He looked down and the sores were gone. There was only a little pink area on her udder and that was quickly fading.

  Then he heard his mother say, “Who are you talking to, Safar?"

  He flushed, then answered: “I wasn't talking to anyone, mother. I was just ... singing a song.” In those days Safar felt compelled to hide his magical talents from others.

  Satisfied, his mother said nothing more. Safar quickly finished the milking and his other chores and by the time he was done his father and sisters were sitting down to breakfast. There was one absent place at the table—the spot where Safar's oldest sister, Quetera had held forth all his life. Safar saw his mother give the seat a sad glance. His sister lived with her husband now and was pregnant with their first child. It had been a difficult pregnancy and the family was worried.

  His mother swiped at her eye, forced a smile, and began to pass the food around. There was porridge and bread toasted over the fire, with big slabs of cheese from the crusted round Safar's mother always kept sitting near the embers. They washed their breakfast down with milk still warm from the goats.

  "You were late coming home last night, Khadji,” his mother said as she gave his father another slice of buttered toast. “There must've been much business for the council to discuss. Not bad news, I hope."

  Khadji frowned. “It wasn't exactly bad news, Myrna,” he said. “But it certainly was troublesome."

  Myrna was alarmed. “Nothing to do with the caravan, I hope?” she said.

  Caravan season was just beginning and the village had received word the first group of traders was making its way to Kyrania. It had been a long winter and the money and goods the caravan would bring were sorely needed.

  "No, nothing to do with the caravan,” Safar's father said. “It's not expected for a few weeks, yet."

  Myrna snorted, impatient. “If you don't want a second bowl of porridge served on your head, Khadji Timura,” she said, “you'
ll tell us right now what this is all about!"

  Usually, Khadji would have laughed, but instead Safar saw his frown deepen.

  "We agreed to accept a boy into the village,” Khadji said. “He was presented to us by an elder of the Babor clan, who begged us to give him sanctuary."

  The Babors were the leading family of a large and fierce clan of people who lived on the distant plains.

  Myrna dropped a serving spoon, shocked. “I don't like that!” she said. “Why, they're practically barbarians. I'm not sure I like having one of their young ruffians among us."

  Khadji shrugged. “What could we do? Barbarians or not, the Babors have kinship claims on us. It wouldn't be right to say no to our cousins."

  Myrna sniffed. “Pretty distant cousins, for all that."

  "He seems a likely enough lad,” Khadji said in the stranger's defense. “His family is related to the Babor headman's wife. They live somewhere in the south. People of influence, from the cut of the boy. He's a handsome fellow about your age, Safar. And tall—about your size, as well. Very mannered. Good clothing. And well spoken. Seems the sort who's used to having servants to order about."

  "He'll soon learn there are no servants in Kyrania,” Myrna said sharply. Then, “Why is he being sent to us?"

  "He's an orphan,” Safar's father said.

  Myrna was scandalized. “An orphan? What kind of orphan is he? No, I take that back. The Gods make orphans. It's no fault of a child's. It's the boy's kin I wonder about. What manner of people are they to push an orphan on strangers? Have they no feelings?"

  Safar saw his father shift, uneasy. “It seems there's some sort of difficulty in his clan,” Khadji said. “A quarrel of some kind."

  Myrna's eyebrows rose. “With those sort of people,” she said, “quarrel usually means violence and bloodshed. It's the only way they know how to settle an argument."

  Khadji nodded, unhappy. “I suspect you're right, Myrna,” he said. “The boy's uncle said as much. I think he fears for the boy's life. He's asked us to let the lad stay at the temple until the danger has passed."