The Master

by Louise Cooper

  She’d taken the precaution of buying a charm-necklace which she wore around her throat to avoid drawing attention to herself, but it did little to allay the creeping unease which was now a constant companion. The sickness of fear that was tainting the world had taken its toll on her, too, and hand in hand with it went her rapidly diminishing hope of ever finding Tarod before the Circle found her. She couldn’t, she knew, evade them for ever, and even if the Circle might eventually be ready to abandon the hunt for Tarod’s paramour, they would never cease to search for Drachea Rannak’s murderer.

  Cyllan shuddered, and tried to put the disquieting thoughts out of her mind and concentrate on the road. A little way ahead she could see a small cairn of stones, newly built, at the side of the track, and around this makeshift shrine travellers had piled offerings - small treasures, items of food, trinkets and coloured scarves - as a plea to Aeoris for protection on the road. She had seen several such shrines during the past few days, and as she drew level with the cairn she wondered if she too might leave something, a coin perhaps, just as a token The wind strengthened unexpectedly, a sharp, soughing gust from the North that bit through her coat and brought gooseflesh to her arms, and in its cold whine she imagined she heard an unhuman laugh. The Chaos stone, hidden beneath her shirt, pulsed suddenly hot against her skin as though in warning, and her pony shied at the cairn.

  Sweat broke out on Cyllan’s face and neck as she calmed the animal and edged it past the shrine. The gusting wind might have been coincidence - but it had followed so instantaneously on the heels of her thought that she doubted it. And that laugh - real or imagined, it had chilled her to the marrow, for it seemed to mock her for daring to think that she might appeal to Aeoris for protection.

  She looked up at the dull, pewter-grey sky, then over her shoulder at the road behind her. An image was in her mind, called back from that day in ShuNhadek when the Warp had struck. She had seen a figure, a phantasm, beckoning to her from the far end of a noisome alley as the storm screamed in from the North; she remembered the brazen hair, the graceful but deadly hand summoning her, the star that burned at the phantom’s heart… and she half expected to relive that nightmare now as she turned her head.

  But the road was deserted …

  The ponies had quieted as the cairn with its offerings fell behind. Cyllan pulled the collar of her coat more closely around her cold cheeks, and dug her heels into her unwilling mount’s flanks to urge it onward.

  Chapter 5

  The Sun had just passed meridian on the following day when Cyllan saw the outlines of a large town ahead. She halted her ponies, staring at the distant rooftops and wondering whether or not to attempt to skirt the place.

  This part of Prospect Province was vaguely familiar to her - she had travelled this way several times with her uncle’s drovers - and, if memory served her correctly, there was little alternative to riding through the town.

  Farmland stretched away to either side, and with newly planted crops growing in their fields the holders hereabouts wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger trampling across their lands when there was a good road to be followed. Fortune had accompanied her so far; she must trust to it again and face the town.

  She heard the tolling of the bell when she was still a half mile out, carried on a light breeze which had backed into the South-East overnight, and the sound of it made her apprehensive. Every town worthy of the name boasted at least one great bell, usually sited in a tower atop the justice house, but it was only rung to signify an event of considerable importance. Something was afoot here, and Cyllan had no wish to become embroiled in it.

  Carefully she surveyed the land to either side of the road, but there was no sign of a track through the fields.

  Very well; it seemed she had no option but to continue.

  At least the townsfolk would be less inclined to trouble a stranger if they had matters of their own to concern them The town boundaries were marked by a humpbacked stone bridge spanning a small but busily chuckling river tributary, and the two men who guarded the bridge turned their heads at the sound of approaching hoofs.

  They had been craning towards the town, clearly anxious to find out what was to do, and Cyllan reined in as she drew level with them.

  ‘State your name, and your business,’ one of the guards demanded.

  Themila Avray, drover, from West High Land.’

  Cyllan had used the alias before, inventing the clan name and adopting the given name of a woman who, Tarod had told her, had once been his dearest friend and mentor at the Castle. ‘I’m bound for ShuNhadek, to meet my cousin at the Quarter-Day fair.’

  The guard’s narrow eyes took in her auburn hair, her clothing, the charm-necklace on her breast, and his expression relaxed slightly. ‘You’ll be lucky if you can get through the town before the day’s out,’ he told her.

  The bell was still ringing, an urgent summons. ‘Why?’

  Cyllan asked.

  ‘There’s a trial to be held in the market square.’ The guard grinned lopsidedly. ‘Rumour is, they’ve caught the Chaos-demon’s accomplice.’

  ‘Caught - ‘ Cyllan checked herself and swallowed, realising that luck was, indeed, with her. She made a sign over her breast, knowing the man expected it.

  ‘Aeoris … ‘

  The guard stood back and waved her on. ‘Best hurry, if you want to see the fun.’ He grinned again. ‘I’m just hoping my relief’ll turn up before it’s all over!’

  Cyllan thanked him, and urged her ponies on over the bridge.

  Even before she reached the market square, Cyllan’s progress was hampered by the press of people who were converging from every direction, and any hopes she might have had of being able to ride through the town and leave it behind were quickly dampened. It seemed that the entire populace was turning out, summoned by the tolling bell, and by the time the square came in sight it was clear that, like it or not, she must stay until the trial was over.

  The square was packed and the crowd spilling over into the neighbouring streets, and only the fact that she was on horseback enabled Cyllan to reach an open space from where, provided she stayed in the saddle, she had a good view of the proceedings. The trial was to be conducted on the steps of the justice house, as the building’s interior had proved inadequate to the event, and the officiators had already emerged and taken their places as she reined in, halted by the press of people.

  An elderly man in black seated himself stiffly in a chair, flanked by a knot of town dignitaries and a uniformed militiaman whose task, apparently, was to read the charges brought against the prisoner. Searching among the group on the steps Cyllan saw, amid an armed guard, a blonde-haired girl, her face drawn with terror, and the spectacle made her feel suddenly sick.

  The girl was even younger than she was and, whatever evidence might be trumped up against her, Cyllan knew she was innocent. But what defence could she possibly have against the superstitious dread of her peers?

  Two years ago she had witnessed a trial, in a Wishet Province town where she was trading with her uncle’s drovers, and memory of that event gave Cyllan a small measure of hope for the girl. An Initiate had presided then, and the evidence of both sides had been heard with a reassuringly sober impartiality, the final verdict fair if not entirely popular. There was no Initiate to conduct matters today, but perhaps that was just as well - the Circle’s anxiety to find the Chaos-lord’s accomplice could prejudice the judgment of any Adept, however high his principles. Cyllan looked at the miserable girl again, and her lips moved in a silent prayer to any powers, Order or Chaos, who might be prevailed on to prevent a miscarriage of justice.

  Her hopes, however, were short-lived. From the furthest edge of the square it was impossible to hear every word of the speeches, the accusations and the depositions, but it soon became clear that the assembled officials were determined to appease a crowd that hungered for blood. Every now and then a speaker was drowned out by a roar of outrage, and the prisoner’s attempts to protest her
innocence were met with the howls of a mob in full cry.

  Cyllan felt sweat breaking out on her skin and trickling uncomfortably down her back, accompanied by an ugly sickness in the pit of her stomach. In the name of the Lords of Order, these good and pious people were condemning an innocent without any hope of redress.

  Witness after witness stepped up to give evidence, and though the girl shook her head frantically, and wept, and pleaded with her judges, the weight of opinion was in full spate against her. Quite what she had purportedly done Cyllan couldn’t discern; and besides, the exact nature of her alleged crime hardly seemed to matter.

  She was young, her hair was blonde, and she was a stranger to the district - those three factors alone were sufficient to condemn her.

  Although to Cyllan the proceedings seemed to take an eternity, in reality the trial was obscenely brief.

  Abruptly the bell in the justice house tower boomed out its sonorous message, and the crowd in the square fell silent as the senior Elder rose from his chair to speak.

  ‘The evidence brought against the prisoner has been carefully analysed and considered.’ His voice, reedy with age, nonetheless cut clearly across the heads of the throng, and Cyllan’s stomach turned at the hypocrisy of his words. ‘And it is with the deepest regret that we, the faithful custodians of the holy laws of Aeoris,’ here he paused to make the Sign, ostentatiously, in the air before him, ‘find all charges against this unfortunate puppet of darkness to be proven.’

  A muttering in the square swelled to a full-throated yell of approval which only died down as the old man made a pacifying gesture towards the crowd.

  ‘These are troubled times,’ the Elder continued when the tumult finally subsided. ‘But we all share a duty which, however onerous a burden, must be fulfilled if we are to truly serve the gods who grant us succour.’ He paused. ‘Like any other devout citizen, I have no taste for vengeance. But can I - can we - truly call ourselves disciples of those very Lords who grant their spark of godhood to our souls and our lives, if we neglect our clear duty when that burden falls upon us?’

  The old man was a master of rhetoric, Cyllan thought bitterly. He praised the mob for their piety, and they hung on his every word. All about her folk were nodding, murmuring, congratulating the Elder and themselves …

  ‘We have no hatred in our hearts!’ the Elder continued, raising his voice. ‘Indeed, we are moved to pity for this unfortunate slave of evil, for hers is a soul which cannot know the blessing of the true gods!’ Another, longer pause. ‘But we cannot allow such pity to sway us from righteousness. And I believe that if our great lord Aeoris himself were to sit in judgment upon the verdict of this court, he would not find that verdict wanting.’ He raised his head with a beatific smile, and a thousand throats roared their approval.

  Cyllan’s ponies snorted and stamped, frightened by the uproar yet too hemmed in to escape. She leaned over her own mount’s neck, whispering soothingly to calm it whilst drawing the other pony as close to her side as she could. Hot fury welled in her. She could do nothing - this mockery of a trial had been decided even before it began; the townsfolk wanted a scapegoat for their terrors, and the elders, like market-place players, courted their favour by providing such a one. For a single, wild moment something deep within her urged her to force her ponies through the crowd to the justice house steps, there to bring out the Chaos stone and scream to these pitiful dupes that the true object of their fear stood among them undaunted … but even as the insane idea glanced through her mind she felt the hot, warning pulse of the gem at her breast, and knew that, whatever savage injustice might be perpetrated here today, she could play no part in rectifying it.

  The Elder was speaking again. ‘My friends, good citizens - though it grieves my heart to pronounce sentence upon this poor creature here before us, justice must take its course.’ He turned to face the now silent girl, his profile outlined hawkishly by the glow of the waning Sun. Tor one who has consorted with the powers of Chaos, there can be but one end. I hope you will join me in praying to Aeoris for this unfortunate, that in his wisdom and mercy he may forgive her transgressions and release her soul from its servitude to evil.’

  Silence greeted his words, but Cyllan saw several people make the Sign of Aeoris in the air before them.

  The girl was staring at her judges, unable to believe the fate that awaited her; then she turned her head away as though withdrawing, detaching herself from the madness around her.

  Cyllan wanted to escape from the square before events took their inexorable course, but there was no room to turn and nowhere to go. The crush was increasing, swelled by new arrivals from the further reaches of the town and also by the fact that a section of the crowd was drawing back to form an aisle between the justice house and the square’s centre, where a Law Stone stood gaunt and bare. The prisoner was hustled down the steps towards the stone, and she seemed suddenly to realise what awaited her, for she began to scream and struggle, fighting her captors with all the strength she possessed.

  The guards shook her violently to quiet her, but Cyllan could hear her deep-throated sobs, as finally manhandling her to the stone, they bound her to the rough granite and drew back.

  Only a stubborn and terrible sense of reality convinced Cyllan that she wasn’t asleep and dreaming as she watched the appalling progress of events from then on.

  A low susurrating murmur vibrated through the square, setting her ponies fidgeting and dancing again, and she could only stare helplessly as the crowd shuffled menacingly towards the Law Stone. There was movement at the front of the throng circling her - then the voice of the Elder, who still stood on the steps of the justice house, rang across the square.

  ‘Let the unhappy task be done.’

  The sound of the first stone as it struck the girl was shocking and sickening against the background of silence. Her body jerked violently and she cried out, but the press of thrusting, jostling people, those at the back craning their necks to see, all but hid her from view. A second stone missed its mark, then a third struck her on the temple, and suddenly, like a pack of hounds loosed on a hunted animal, the mob closed in with a bloodlusting yell.

  ‘No … ‘ Cyllan’s own whisper was harsh in her ears, but the crowd were too intent on their victim to notice.

  ‘Yandros, no … ‘

  They had been waiting for this moment, she realised, knowing what the outcome of the trial would be, and prepared for it. Those stones hadn’t materialised from nowhere … the mob had known that this ancient and barbaric method of execution would be invoked, and every man and woman among them had come well prepared.

  She stared with a hideous fascination as stones, pebbles, even spars of wood, rained down on the girl’s unprotected body. Blood made a grisly pattern on her face and now she was screaming, unable to maintain her futile courage any longer and writhing against the ropes that held her. Cyllan didn’t know how long it was before her slight figure finally slumped into unconsciousness, but even when her senses had fled the sea of arms continued to rise and fall, and the sounds as rock met unresistant flesh made Cyllan feel sick with shock and disgust.

  At long last it was over. An eerie silence descended on the square, and gradually, like an ebbing tide, the townsfolk began to move away, withdrawing from the ruined and bloody shell of humanity that hung like a grotesque doll from the Law Stone. The Elders, their own part in the charade complete, had made a dignified exit, and finally Cyllan realised that her path was no longer blocked by the milling throng.

  Her pony side-stepped, flattening its ears, its nostrils flaring at the alarming scent of blood. Cyllan turned it away from the Law Stone, knowing that she couldn’t continue her journey, couldn’t cross the square while the girl’s corpse hung there. She slid from the saddle, almost falling as her legs threatened to give way under her, and hid her face in the pony’s mane, wishing that she could be sick, faint - anything to banish the hideous after-images of what she had witnessed.

  A wine-seller
began to ring a handbell behind her, shrilly proclaiming that her wares were the best to be found in the province, and the ponies reared and whinnied in fright at the noise. Cyllan swung round and saw a makeshift stall laden with skins, jars and cups. For a moment she could only stare, numbed, at the brisk business the seller was already doing; then an impulse urged her to stumble forward. Wine might help her to forget what she had seen … she dug into her belt-pouch and pulled out the first coin she found; a half-gravine.

  ‘Give me a full skin.’ Her voice was harsh.

  The woman grinned broadly. ‘Gladly, lass! And you’ll drink the health of our good elders, eh?’

  The wine-skin was pressed into Cyllan’s hand. She received no change and knew the woman was robbing her, but she was past caring. The ponies followed her uneasily as she stumbled towards the edge of the square, where she would be out of the crush, and tears were starting to flow as she slumped down against a white-washed wall and, with shaking hands, uncorked the brimming skin and raised it to her lips.

  ‘ … Is she merely asleep, d’you think? Or taken ill?’

  ‘I don’t know … wait, and I’ll see.’

  The female voices impinged on Cyllan’s hazed mind as though through a heavy fog, and although she knew that she was the object of their scrutiny, she didn’t seem able to unlock her tongue and tell them that she was well enough, and to leave her be. She heard a footfall, then sensed a figure stooping over her.

  ‘No, she’s not ill.’ There was faint amusement in the voice. ‘She’s drunk!’

  ‘I am not… ohh!’ Cyllan found her voice at last and attempted to protest, but an injudicious movement sent pain throbbing through her head, and her back was so stiff that every muscle resisted violently. She opened her eyes, wincing at what seemed to be intolerantly brilliant light, and finally focused on the two women who were bent over her.