Isyn didn’t reply, but his brows knitted together in a sharp frown, and Fenar made an angry gesture.
‘Oh, I know. Thus it is written, thus it must be. Just because some musty old manuscripts mouldering away in the far North say that we have to follow this ridiculous procedure - don’t frown at me like that, Isyn; I don’t appreciate your disapproval.
Isyn’s normally placid temper was starting to fray, and he interrupted. ‘You may not appreciate it, High Margrave, but you have it, whether either of us wills or no.
And you’d have more than disapproval from the Guardians if you tried to set one foot on the White Isle from the deck of the Summer Sister.
Fenar shrugged. ‘Would I? They’re nothing more than gatekeepers, however they like to cloak themselves. I could command them to -
‘I’d defy any mortal man, living or dead, to command the Guardians.’ Isyn spoke so quietly and yet with such conviction that the young man was surprised. ‘No High Margrave, or High Initiate or Matriarch for that matter, has set eyes on the Guardians for generations, save from a distance, and none would dare - yes, sir, I said dare - to go against their will.
Fenar licked his lips uneasily, and Isyn pressed home the point. ‘You’ve heard the stories - I taught them to you myself, when you were barely fledged. I’m only surprised you could have forgotten them.
Some of the older tales hinted that the Guardians, the hereditary caste who for thousands of years had inhabited the White Isle, weren’t even truly human, but were descended from angelic beings in whose charge Aeoris had placed his casket. Wild stories, doubtless, but it was said there could be no smoke without fire … Every now and then the Guardians sailed their strange barque to the mainland, and took a handful of chosen women back to their stronghold to bear them children and so ensure the continuance of the caste. The women returned after a year or so, and never spoke of what they had seen; most were taken into the Sisterhood, or made convenient marriages later. The male children born on the Isle grew up to become the next generation of Guardians. No one ever speculated on what happened to the female children.
The bright Sun was obscured suddenly by a stray wisp of cloud drifting from the West, and a wing of shadow passed over the dock and the carriage. Fenar glanced up, shivering as though the momentary gloom were an omen, and when he looked at Isyn again the anger had faded from his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Isyn,’ he said awkwardly. With the need to apologise to anyone lessening as he grew more accustomed to his status, humility was becoming unfamiliar, and Isyn appreciated the effort this took. ‘I forgot myself, and I was wrong. We must, of course, do as protocol dictates.’ He forced a smile. ‘I don’t want to make a fool of myself, do I, on what must surely be the most momentous task I’ll ever undertake? I can just imagine what my father would have said - called me an arrogant little tyke and given me a whipping, I should think.
Isyn inclined his head in amused acknowledgement, and Fenar hunched his shoulders. In the wake of his apology and confession he was trying to salve his dignity and appear adult. The comment about his father had been a conciliatory gesture; now he wanted to erase it and move on. Isyn considered himself too old to remember the impatience and frustration of being 17, but nonetheless he could appreciate the boy’s feelings.
He said, nodding towards the dock, ‘It seems the activity’s slowing down. I would imagine the ship will be ready to sail on the next turn of the tide.
‘Yes … though perhaps after all I’ll take your advice, Isyn - bearing in mind the prospect of the Matriarch’s company.’ Fenar studied his nails, self-conscious. ‘Doubtless there are a hundred and one small tasks I’ve overlooked and should attend to before embarking.
‘Doubtless. And you must bid farewell to your lady mother, the Dowager Margravine.
The High Margrave looked up quickly, then the lids came half down over his grey eyes, masking their expression. That I’ve already done. At least, I sent a message to her yesterday, and had her reply this morning. She sends her love, but begs to be excused from a meeting.
Isyn sighed inwardly. Since the death of her husband the Margravine had retired completely into herself, living out her days in an isolated dower house some way from the court, tended only by three serving-women, and grieving ceaselessly. She saw no outsider, not even her own son, and the consensus of opinion was that she was simply waiting to die.
‘She asked to be remembered to you,’ Fenar added.
‘Did she?’ Isyn was surprised, and touched. ‘How kind of her.
A slightly strained silence fell between the two for a while then, until Isyn, alerted by footsteps, looked up to see the dock overseer approaching the carriage. On the Summer Sister’s deck the crew were suddenly active, the ship’s master calling out orders in clipped but carrying tones.
He touched Fenar’s shoulder, and the boy blinked.
‘I think,’ Isyn said, smiling, ‘that if you have tasks to complete, sir, we might as well return to the palace and attend to them. If I read the signs aright, the Summer Sister is ready to sail when the High Margrave commands it.
Chapter 8
Tarod’s keen eyes saw the small cavalcade approaching from the West against the glare of the setting Sun, and he reached out to touch the bridle of Cyllan’s horse, bringing it to a well-trained halt. She shifted in her saddle, squinting as she tried to follow where he was pointing, then looked at him and saw the unease in his expression.
‘What is it, Tarod?
‘I don’t know.’ He couldn’t explain the intuitive foreboding stirring within him; this was by no means the first party they had encountered on the road, but a sixth sense told him that it was no ordinary convoy, and he was wary.
Cyllan looked again. The sun was sinking into a bank of cloud and the glare was suddenly lessened, so that she could make out individual shapes among the cavalcade.
They’re moving quite slowly,’ she said, then: There’s something in their midst; something large …
‘It’s a palanquin.’ Tarod frowned. ‘And most of the riders seemed to be dressed in white.
She glanced uncertainly at him, beginning to share his unease. ‘Do you know who they are?
‘I know who they should be - but it makes no logical sense, unless - ‘ He hesitated, then shook his head as though dismissing whatever unspoken thought had been in his mind, and instead turned his attention to the South. Three miles ahead, across a stretch of pleasant moorland, it was just possible to make out the contours of ShuNhadek in the evening haze, while beyond its blurred outlines the sea glittered like a knife on the horizon. Almost their final goal … they’d planned on reaching it by nightfall, and it seemed they weren’t alone; at its present speed, he judged, the distant company would cross their path a mile outside the town.
His horse stamped and snorted, not understanding the delay, and Tarod turned to Cyllan. ‘Best play the lady for a while again, love. We may have to exchange a social grace or two before we reach ShuNhadek.
She smiled wryly, and swung her right leg back across her mount’s withers, hooking her knee over the elaborately designed pommel of her saddle. She found the side-saddle posture awkward and uncomfortable, but no woman of quality would dream of riding any other way - and a woman of quality was precisely what Cyllan was pretending to be.
With more than enough coin in his pouch to see them to their journey’s end, Tarod had reasoned that ostentation was their best form of disguise. The populace was alerted to hunt down two fugitives, and no one was likely to consider that fugitives might hide by drawing attention to themselves - the concept wasn’t logical. And so he had stopped at the next sizeable town and, while Cyllan waited outside the walls, had bought new clothes for them both and two well-bred horses to replace the big bay; a chestnut gelding for himself, and a mettlesome but good-tempered grey mare for Cyllan. From then on, while he blurred their appearance and the memory of their faces in the minds of those they encountered, they had travel
led under the guise of a prosperous vintner and his wife, and Tarod had noted with irony the ease with which they had passed through towns and villages. Rumour was still rife everywhere, but they heard little of it; ordinary folk would not dream of approaching wealthy strangers to share the latest gossip, and so, although they had made good speed to ShuNhadek, they’d heard nothing of the latest news.
And in every town and village there was still sickening testimony to the terror rife in the land. Accusations, trials, executions, vengeance - the tide showed no sign of turning, and the sights they saw on the road served both to strengthen Tarod’s resolve, and to increase his anxiety to reach ShuNhadek, and beyond it his ultimate goal, as quickly as possible.
He touched his heels to the chestnut’s flanks and it moved on, Cyllan’s mare keeping pace. The light was failing rapidly as the cloudbank swallowed the Sun; ahead the first lamps were beginning to twinkle in the harbour town, mirroring the fainter glitter of stars in the easterly sky.
They heard the first sounds of the cavalcade as they reached the point where the western and southern roads merged for the final run into ShuNhadek. In the twilight the approaching figures - which were, as Tarod had said, mostly dressed in white - might have been ethereal ghosts, but the clatter and thump of several dozen hoofs, the jingle of harness, proved they were solid enough. At the meeting of the roads Tarod and Cyllan reined in, and Cyllan’s eyes widened as at last she recognised the riders for what they were.
‘Sisters … ‘ Her voice was almost inaudible.
The grey mare side-stepped, disturbed by her rider’s sudden disquiet, and Tarod spoke a word that settled her. ‘I thought so … ‘ He watched the approaching group with eyes that were suddenly narrowed to slits.
‘And if I’m not mistaken, they’re from Southern Chaun.
‘Southern Chaun?
The Matriarch’s Cot.’ He had counted eight women on horseback and five heavily built male escorts, while in the midst of the convoy an elaborately decked litter swayed, borne by four more horses and swathed in richly embroidered curtains. Its occupant wasn’t visible.
‘You see that?’ He nodded towards the litter. That’s the palanquin of the Matriarch herself, Lady Ilyaya Kimi.
He realised that Cyllan didn’t understand, and added, ‘Lady Ilyaya is over 80, and she hasn’t left her Cot for ten years. She was too infirm to attend Keridil’s inauguration - and if she’s riding in the palanquin now, there’s only one circumstance which could have brought her here.’ His hand, light on the reins, tightened its grip suddenly. ‘It means that Keridil has summoned a Conclave.
The leader of the Matriarch’s escort called a sharp warning as he saw the two indistinct figures motionless by the meeting of the roads, and metal rattled as the five men drew their swords. The two figures didn’t move, and after a moment the men relaxed as they realised the strangers presented no threat - merely a merchant, or some such, and his wife; doubtless awed by the cavalcade and wisely reining back to allow them to pass.
The convoy trotted by in stately grandeur; near its head, one of the older Sisters spared a glance for the two riders, whom she saw as Tarod wished her to see them - nondescript, irrelevant. Her voice carried clear above the rumble of their progress as she called out, ‘Aeoris be with you, good people!’ and she made the Sign, with just a hint of patronage, in their direction.
Cyllan saw Tarod bow his head as though in recognition and thanks, and hastily followed his example. As the gilded palanquin swayed past she peered harder, curious to glimpse the Matriarch; but the curtains didn’t so much as twitch. Then the cavalcade was drawing away from them along the road into ShuNhadek.
Tarod watched as the riders diminished. He had, without realising it, touched his right hand to the ring on his left index finger, and in response the ring’s stone flared and shimmered like a small, white eye. He had made the decision to restore the Chaos stone to its silver base after their flight from Prospect; and as the ring’s contours flowed once again to clasp the jewel he had felt a bitter mingling of despair and triumph. He was, truly, whole again - but as he slipped the ring back on to his finger and sensed the old familiarity of its presence, he had realised afresh how dangerous its pervasive influence might prove to be. He would need an iron will, a steel control, to keep to his resolution now, against the living power of Chaos. Yet over and beyond that he would need the power the ring granted him - the power of his own soul - if he wasn’t to fail in what he set out to do. And the presence of the Matriarch in ShuNhadek made the goal that much more urgent than before.
The thought was like a goad, and without warning he urged his mount forward. Cyllan followed, confused by the anger that she’d seen in his eyes in the moment before he set off.
‘Tarod! Tarod, what is it?
He looked back, said something which she couldn’t hear, and she kicked hard at the grey mare’s flank. The animal put on a turn of speed and danced alongside him.
Even in the gloom, Cyllan could see that his face was taut and bitter. Tarod, I don’t understand! You said that Keridil had called a Conclave - what does that mean?
No one outside the Circle could possibly understand the full implications of what the High Initiate had done.
But if his suspicions were right, then Keridil had set something in motion which, if he didn’t act quickly, could bring catastrophe on them all.
He realised suddenly that he’d been on the verge of cursing at Cyllan, taking his anger out on her simply because there was no one else at hand. With an effort he controlled the rising tide of emotion in him.
‘I can’t explain it now,’ he said. ‘But we’ve no time to lose - and the gods help us if we’re too late!
ShuNhadek was in a ferment. By one means and another, news of the High Initiate’s decision had flooded into the town ahead of the three rulers’ parties, and with it had come a steady stream of devout or frightened people, anxious to congregate as near as possible to the site of the holy alliance and seek sanctuary or blessing in its shadow. By the time Tarod and Cyllan arrived, the Matriarch’s cavalcade had disappeared, whisked away to the Margrave’s residence to await the arrival of Keridil Toln and Fenar Alacar - and, as Tarod had anticipated, every inn and hostelry in the town was full to overflowing.
They finally reached the market square and stopped to rest their tired horses. The square was abnormally busy; torches burned in the porticoes of all the larger buildings, casting a peculiar, flickering hellglow across the flagstones; people had congregated simply to wait and watch and see whatever might be seen; at the harbour side of the square a group of minstrels were singing pious songs in the hope of earning a coin or two.
Cyllan looked to where black openings gaped at intervals among the buildings, and fancied she saw the cold glimmer of the harbour waters at the far end of an unlit alley. She shivered at a sudden, unwanted memory and edged her horse a little closer to Tarod’s.
This atmosphere … ‘ She pitched her voice to a whisper that only he could hear. ‘It unnerves me.
‘I know.’ He patted the chestnut gelding’s neck. ‘It’s as if the whole town has caught a fever. But at least we’re not too late. The town’s still awaiting Keridil - we’re ahead of him, and that gives us some leeway. We’ll find somewhere to rest the night, then see what we can discover in the morning.
Cyllan shivered again. ‘There’s not an inn that hasn’t barred its doors to new trade.
‘Maybe.’ Tarod smiled, an old smile that hinted at something she preferred not to question. ‘We’ll see.
Within half an hour he had found lodging for them, at a respectable tavern only a few moments’ walk from the market square. Cyllan had been dubious at first, afraid that they might be courting disaster by settling so close to the hub of activity, but he had soothed her fears, knowing that they were in no danger - at least, until the Circle party should arrive. Money, a little intimidation and a touch of his power had secured them a good room, and a meal was served to th
em there. Cyllan didn’t want to eat - her nerves, like the strings of an overtuned instrument, felt on the verge of snapping - but Tarod’s calm confidence soothed the worst of her terrors.
As they ate, Tarod explained the nature of the Conclave, and described what its outcome could mean to them.
‘If Keridil succeeds in summoning Aeoris on the White Isle,’ he said, ‘then the powers of Order will have only one aim - to eradicate every trace of Chaos in the world.
Cyllan looked at him through her lashes, aware that her heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably. ‘But isn’t that what you want?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ She thought that Tarod had hesitated momentarily, though his answer was decisive enough. ‘But I fear that the White Lords will pursue that aim single-mindedly, without thought for the consequences that might befall mere mortals.’ He touched his tongue to his lips. ‘How is it possible to comprehend, let alone explain, the reasoning of a god? Yet I feel … I feel I know, far better than Keridil, the true nature of the power he means to unleash.’ He closed his right hand over the restored silver ring, aware of the Chaos stone pulsing beneath his fingers, and saw that Cyllan was watching him intently. ‘Although he is the patron and protector of humanity, Aeoris transcends human limitations to such a degree that individual lives and deaths - which are of vital importance to the mortals concerned - are so trivial to him as to be beyond his consideration - and so much more so when weighed against the threat posed by Yandros.’ He paused, then smiled wryly. ‘Imagine that you stood in a meadow, confronted by an enemy who meant to slay you. In fighting that enemy, would you be concerned for the tiny insects which might be crushed out of existence beneath your feet as you battled?
Cyllan nodded. ‘I understand you.
Then you understand the danger in what Keridil means to do. And if Aeoris should find Yandros a powerful enemy, not easily overcome, the destruction they wreak will be all the greater. It mustn’t come to that, Cyllan.
The Master Page 14
