The Master

by Louise Cooper

  The Master Book 3 of the Time Master Trilogy

  by Louise Cooper

  Version 1.1

  Chapter 1

  At this early season, the dense forests which covered most of the western half of Chaun Province provided scant shelter for any traveller. In places the Spring buds had burst in isolated explosions of green, and on the forest floor bracken and brambles were tentatively showing new shoots; but, apart from the occasional glowering bulk of a giant pine, most of the woodlands trees were as yet leafless.

  In a clearing not far from the forest’s northerly edge, a tall iron-grey gelding foraged disconsolately in the undergrowth, the broken reins of its bridle trailing behind it and catching on the briars. Its saddle had slipped halfway round its girth and one loose stirrup banged occasionally on a hind leg, making the animal flatten its ears and snap at the unseen irritant while sweat broke out on its withers. Though otherwise it seemed calm enough, there were tell-tale flecks of foam around its mouth and ringing the saddle like scum; and every now and again the gelding would pause in its browsing for no apparent reason and jerk its head up suspiciously, alert for some imagined threat.

  In the three hours since its extraordinary and terrified arrival in the clearing, the horse had ignored the still, slender figure lying sprawled across the protruding roots of a giant oak. Strict training had conditioned it not to leave its rider - whoever that rider might be - and seek freedom; but until the rider showed signs of consciousness, the animal had no interest in her. With the terrors of the last few hours all but forgotten, it was content to stay in the relative safety of the wood and continue grazing until it should be called upon to move.

  The girl, clinging frantically to the gelding’s saddle as they exploded out of the howling insanity that had snatched them in its grip and hurled them here, had been thrown from the animal’s back as it crashed down, screaming, among the undergrowth. She had slammed against the oak’s gigantic bole and fallen like a shot bird to lie unmoving among the roots. Her face, half hidden under a tangle of near white hair and the tattered hood of a cloak, was drained and sickly, her lips bloodless; and a bright scarlet stain had spread from her skull across her forehead, mingling with other, older bloodstains that weren’t her own. But she breathed … and at last, slowly, she began to stir.

  As she returned to consciousness Cyllan had no immediate memories of the events which had brought her to the forest. At first, dimly aware that she lay on hard, cold and damp ground, she thought herself asleep in the hide tent which she’d called home during her four years as an apprentice drover. But there was no claustrophobic sense of enclosure, no stink and bawl of milling cattle, no ill-tempered yelling from her uncle, Kand Brialen.

  Her droving days were over. A dream - nothing but a bad dream. Surely, she was still in the Castle … ?

  It was that thought which brought clarity back to her mind like a hard slap in the face, and involuntarily she jerked upright, her peculiar amber eyes opening and a cry, a name, breaking from her throat before she could stop it.

  ‘Tarod!’

  The gelding lifted its head and regarded her curiously.

  Cyllan stared back, bewildered, knowing only that she had never seen this place before. Hammers were beating in her skull; with a gasp of pain she slumped back against the tree trunk, and every muscle protested at the movement, making her feel as though her body were on fire.

  Her mind struggled frantically to assimilate the impossible evidence of her senses. Where was the Castle? What had happened to Tarod? They’d found her in the stable when she was trying to reach him, dragged her out into into the black-walled courtyard where the High Initiate waited; and then, as the Warp had come shrieking overhead, Tarod had appeared -

  The Warp. Suddenly, Cyllan remembered, and with the memory came a sickness that clutched at her empty stomach and made her retch, violently and uselessly, doubled up against the tree’s unyielding bark. She recalled the confrontation in the courtyard, her own escape - she had kicked the High Initiate full in the stomach, bitten the burly man who held her - and her precipitous flight when, trapped and beyond Tarod’s reach, she had taken the only chance she had and leaped on to the gelding’s back. She’d had some wild idea of riding down anyone who stood in her path, forcing a way through to Tarod, but the horse had panicked, bolted - and careered out through the Castle gates, straight into the path of the monstrous supernatural storm that raged in unleashed chaos outside.

  Cyllan shuddered as images of the horrors she had glimpsed in the split second before the storm engulfed her slid past her defences. The mountains, twisted to impossible shapes and dimensions; the sea seeming to rear in a titanic wall of water towering thousands of feet to the ravening sky; wild, monstrous faces manifesting from cloud and lightning, serpent tongues darting and voices bellowing with insensate agony - then the black wall had thundered in to meet her and she knew only darkness and madness until she had burst in a howling cacophony of noise and brilliance and buffeting pain on to a scene that almost smashed her sanity with its sheer normality. Then she was hurtling through the air - she heard the gelding shriek as it fell - and the tree, solid, real, uncompromising, obliterated her consciousness.

  At last the spasms in her stomach faded and she pulled herself to a less cramped position. She was alive - and whatever her predicament, that in itself was cause for sobering gratitude. Everyone in the land was brought up from childhood with a paralysing terror of the Warps; there wasn’t a soul alive who hadn’t heard the high, thin wailing out of the far North, and seen the bands of sickly colour marching across the sky, that presaged the onset of one of the appalling supernatural storms. The Warps were a legacy of Chaos, a last remaining manifestation of the pandemonium that had once ruled unchecked in the world before the rise of Order, and when they came, terrifying and unpredictable, every man, woman and child took shelter. Those who failed to find it had fervent prayers said for their souls by the Sisters of Aeoris, and left behind friends and relatives who knew that no trace of them would ever be found. Legend had it that the wailing scream which accompanied a Warp as it rode across the land was the massed lamentation of all those lost and damned, borne on the winds of Chaos.

  But twice now Cyllan had survived the indescribable horror of the storms; twice she’d found herself carried across the face of the world by the maelstrom and left battered and bruised, but alive, in some distant and unknown place. If the legends were credible - and there was enough gruesome evidence to prove their veracity - then she should be dead, and damned to whatever hell awaited the Warps’ victims. Yet she lived … and the knowledge of why she lived made her shiver as she recalled the calculating and coldly invincible being who had pragmatically chosen to offer her his protection.

  Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who claimed kinship with Tarod and whose machinations had sparked off the whole ugly chain of events at the Castle of the Star Peninsula, had answered her desperate prayers for help when there was no other hope left to her. She remembered the unhuman smile on his beautiful face when, as she cowered before him, he had revealed his part in preserving her life and bringing her to the Castle when the Warp struck in ShuNhadek. As the grey gelding plunged through the Castle gates and into the storm she had screamed his name in a frantic, involuntary cry for aid, and it seemed that again he had answered her.

  Cyllan had no illusions about Yandros’s loyalty or patronage; he protected her because she was useful to him, but should she fail in the task he had set her she could expect no mercy from him. And she knew - as he knew - that, now she had turned her face once from her fealty to the ruling lords of Order, she would find no forgiveness if she ever came to repent what she’d done.

  In casting her lot with Chaos, she had irrevocably damned herself in the eyes of her own go
ds.

  Cyllan shivered again, and reached to the neck of her grey dress, fumbling at the bodice until she drew out something that lodged between her breasts. She hadn’t lost it in the wild flight from the Castle - and she felt an odd mixture of relief and disgust as she looked at the small clear, multifaceted jewel lying in the palm of her hand and winking a cold reflection of the drab daylight.

  The Chaos stone. A source of power and terror … and the vessel that contained the soul of the man she loved.

  Reflexively her hand closed over the stone, hiding it from view. Torn between hatred of the jewel’s nature and the painful knowledge that without it he was incomplete, Tarod had warned her of its influence; an influence, he’d said, which corrupted and tainted anything it touched, or anyone who possessed it. Bitterly, she reflected how right he was. The stone had already aided her to kill once, firing her with a demonic bloodlust that made her revel in the act of murder. The stigmata of that deed still remained, in the dried red-brown stains that smeared her hands and clothes, and she knew how easy it was to fall under that dark influence. Only Tarod could exert any control over the stone - and he needed it, for without it he was bereft of all but a fraction of his power. With the Circle, of which he’d once been a high Adept, pledged to destroy him, his life would be in danger until the jewel was in his possession once more.

  If, indeed, he was still alive …

  It wasn’t in Cyllan’s nature to cry. Her harsh life had taught her the futility of displaying any of the traditional feminine weaknesses, but abruptly she found herself on the verge of tears. If Tarod lived … The last thing she recalled before the gelding had bolted was seeing him on the steps by the Castle’s main door, unarmed and pressed by three or four sword-wielding Initiates bent on cutting him down before he could retaliate. The Warp had been howling overhead and she had seen no more of him - but surely, surely even his diminished power was enough to save him? He could have escaped from the Castle - and if he had, he would be looking for her.

  Though where he would begin, with the entire world to choose from, was beyond imagining.

  Cyllan forced herself to look at the stone again, grimacing as it shone like a malign, disembodied eye through the lattice of her fingers. Then, carefully, she tucked it back in the bodice of her dress, feeling it settle cold and unyielding against her skin. However ambiguous her feelings towards it, the stone was a talisman, her one link with Tarod, and if such a thing were possible it would call him to her. Yandros might not be able to lend her direct aid, but the Chaos lord wanted the gem restored to Tarod, and if that was her only hope of finding him then she would do all she could to further Yandros’s aim. She closed her mind to any thoughts of what might happen beyond that; all that mattered was that she and Tarod should be reunited.

  But a clearing in a forest in the gods alone knew what part of the world was hardly the most auspicious starting place for a search. In the short time since she’d regained consciousness the light had perceptibly faded, telling her that the weather was deteriorating. She had no food, water or shelter, and no idea how far she might be from the nearest village or even drove road. She couldn’t judge the time of day; it might be nearing dusk, and the forest wasn’t a safe place to spend the night - it was high time she put aside her speculations and looked to the more practical and immediate problems of survival.

  She struggled to her feet, and the gelding raised its head suspiciously. Brushing debris from her crumpled clothes - her skirt was badly ripped at one side, she noticed - Cyllan put two fingers in her mouth and gave a peculiar, low whistle. The gelding laid its ears back; she whistled again, and, reluctantly obeying the summons, the animal approached close enough for her to take hold of its bridle. As she retightened the saddle and checked for broken straps, Cyllan was thankful, perhaps for the first time in her life, for the four years she’d spent travelling the roads on ponyback as an apprentice in her uncle’s drover band. The whistle was a trick she’d learned early, and could command the most recalcitrant animal; the gelding would give her no trouble, and she was inured to long hours in the saddle. With Aeoris - she mentally corrected herself, smiling wryly to cover her unease - with luck on her side, she should make good enough speed to the nearest habitation.

  The harness was secure: balancing on a tree root to gain height, Cyllan swung herself into the saddle. Peering up through the latticed branches of the trees she tried to discern the lie of the lowering Sun, but the tiny patchwork of sky above was overcast. She sat for a moment, considering, then swung the horse’s head in what intuition told her was a roughly southerly direction. Most of the forest belts which crossed the western and central parts of the land ran East to West; therefore if she rode South she should reach the edge of the woodland before long, and from there be able to pick up a drove road without too much difficulty.

  She didn’t know, and didn’t care to speculate, what might await her on her journey. If Tarod had escaped, word would soon be out and the hunt under way for him; possibly for her too, though it was more likely that the Circle would believe her dead. Somehow, she must find him before they did …

  She touched her heels to the gelding’s flanks, and urged it forward among the dense, waiting trees.

  *

  The singing that drifted faintly from the direction of the main hall in the Castle of the Star Peninsula would have been a delight to hear, had it taken place under less dismal circumstances. The massed women’s voices were beautiful, their harmonies rising and falling on the light evening breeze; but Keridil Toln couldn’t for a moment forget that the Sisters of Aeoris were singing a requiem for the son of the man who sat opposite him in his study.

  Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave of Shu Province, listened to the choir with head bowed, one hand unmoving on the stem of his wine cup. Occasionally he looked up at the open window as though expecting to see something or someone, and Keridil glimpsed the momentary glitter of suppressed rage in his eyes.

  At last Gant spoke, quietly, calmly. ‘The Sisters’ singing is very moving. I appreciate the gesture, High Initiate, on their part and yours.’ He blinked; frowned painfully. ‘I only regret that their anthems can’t bring Drachea back from the dead.’

  Keridil sighed. He had dreaded having to break the news that the Margrave’s son and heir had been murdered while under his protection. Gant had arrived with his wife and entourage only that day, rejoicing to hear that Drachea had single-handedly thwarted the machinations of Chaos and performed a great service for the Circle. His son was a hero - but instead of sharing in his glory, the old man had been greeted instead with the shock of his bloody and ignominious death. Keridil had anticipated ranting, lamentation, accusation; but the Margrave’s quiet, bitter grief had proved far harder to withstand. The Lady Margravine had collapsed and now lay in the Castle’s best guest suite, tended by Grevard the physician; but Gant had refused all offers of sedatives or calmatives, and instead, after seeing his son’s corpse, had requested a private interview with the High Initiate.

  Keridil had now told the full story of Drachea’s death; of how he had disturbed Cyllan, after her escape, in the act of stealing the Chaos stone, and of how she had slain him. He had wanted to confess to his own sense of responsibility for the young man’s murder, yet apologies seemed grotesquely inadequate; all he could do was wait for Gant to say whatever he wished to say. Knowing the Margrave, Keridil had little doubt that he’d speak his mind.

  The singing faded on a final, poignant harmony, and the Margrave nodded his head as though in approval.

  Then he looked at Keridil again, and this time his eyes were iron hard.

  ‘Well, High Initiate. Only one question remains in my mind. What is to be done to avenge my son’s murder?’

  Keridil glanced at the notes which he’d made earlier in the day. Though it would bring Gant small comfort, he could at least report that he hadn’t been idle.

  ‘I’ve already set matters in train, Margrave,’ he said.

  ‘You may have heard
of the recent experiments carried out in Wishet and Empty Provinces, with message-carrying birds - ‘

  ‘I’ve heard of it, High Initiate. In fact, I suggested that the idea might be employed in the search for my son when he first disappeared.’

  Keridil flushed at the older man’s tone. ‘Indeed …

  well, the early experiments were successful enough for us to put the idea into practice here at the Castle. We have a master falconer visiting us from Empty Province, and his birds have proved reliable and far faster than any relay of horsemen.’

  Gant’s eyes lit feverishly. ‘Then you can send out - ‘

  ‘I already have, sir. Three birds were despatched at noon today, to carry word of what’s happened here to West High Land, Han and Chaun. As soon as they land, more birds will leave for the other provinces. The news should reach the furthest outposts tomorrow, and even the High Margrave himself will hear of it within the day.’

  Gant’s eyes narrowed. ‘And the girl - that murdering little serpent … you’ve conveyed her description to every Margravate? To every militia leader?’ His fist clenched involuntarily on the table. ‘She must be found, High Initiate, and she must be executed!’

  The Margrave’s single-mindedness was understandable in the circumstances, but Keridil had more than Cyllan’s whereabouts on his mind. Of the two people he sought she was by far the less dangerous, and though he was determined to bring her to justice he had more urgent priorities. Nonetheless, he was well aware that Gant must be handled with care; any hint that his son’s murder took second place to other considerations would mean more trouble than Keridil could cope with at present.

  He said, ‘Indeed we’ve circulated her description, Margrave; and I’m confident that she won’t be able to escape the search for long - if she’s still alive, which we can only surmise. The militia are to be put on full alert, and I’ve asked for the utmost co-operation from every province. However, I must add that we’re dealing with something that could have even greater ramifications than Drachea’s murder.’ He glanced up, saw the older man’s expression and continued with caution. ‘You know now what’s happened here at the Castle recently, how it came about, and who perpetrated it. That perpetrator is still at large - and he’s a thousand times more dangerous than Cyllan Anassan. Please - ‘ he added quickly as Gant seemed about to protest, ‘I share your anxiety to find the girl and punish her. But I dare not neglect the search for Tarod. He’s far more than just a killer; he’s an incarnation of Chaos.’ He leaned forward, intent. ‘Margrave, you’ve seen and heard for yourself a little of the havoc he’s capable of wreaking. Can you imagine what the fate of all of us would be if such a monstrous power of evil were let loose on the world?’