The Master

by Louise Cooper

  ‘The petition of Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle, is heard and granted. Let those willing to share in his duty be brought aboard.’ The Guardian stepped back, distancing himself from Keridil with the movement, and the High Initiate saw the sling swing ponderously over the White Barque’s side once more to begin its downward journey. Involuntarily he looked back over his shoulder to see how his companions fared, but from this height the dory was invisible.

  He cleared his throat, drawing the Guardian’s attention. ‘We have a prisoner,’ he began, still unsure of his ground despite the fact that the formalities were done.

  ‘She - ‘

  The pale man interrupted him with a wintry smile.

  ‘The girl may be brought aboard. She will be confined in the appropriate manner until her presence is required.’

  What they knew of Cyllan, or how they knew it, Keridil didn’t care to speculate. He merely nodded an unspoken acknowledgement, then turned to the ship’s side as, with its second passenger secured in its folds, the sling began to rise slowly, slowly towards the deck.

  The blow which had stunned Cyllan insensible had left a violent blue-black bruise on her forehead, and her skull beneath the bruise throbbed sickeningly as consciousness began to return. At first she was reluctant to open her eyes, knowing only that she was emerging from an ugly dream in which conflicting images had become confused; Tarod sleeping in their room at the tavern, a wet rope that grazed her hand, and, ludicrously, Keridil Toln’s face seen against the backdrop of the Moonlit harbour in ShuNhadek … wild, mad nightmares. Her limbs were numb with cramp; she made an effort to sit up - and fell back painfully on to a hard surface with a jolt that jarred her eyes open.

  She was surrounded by whiteness. White shrouds formed vast, menacing wings all around her, climbing above her to such a height that for a moment her confused mind thought they must be clouds. But clouds didn’t descend to earth … and the surface beneath her was moving in a way she found disconcertingly familiar.

  Alarmed, Cyllan tried to scramble to her feet, and sprawled again. Her wrists and ankles were tied… And the movement beneath her was the steady, rhythmic motion of a ship beating its way out to sea …

  It was then that she saw the motionless figure standing behind her. Clad in white like some phantom sailor he stared into the middle distance, apparently unconcerned by her efforts to free herself. His sheer impassiveness chilled her marrow as she realised that, though he guarded her, he was utterly indifferent to anything she might try to do; that he knew, even if she did not, how helpless she was.

  White… White ship, white sails, white-garbed crew … the truth began to dawn hideously in Cyllan’s mind.

  Keridil! So his face hadn’t been her dream; he was here - Here? she asked herself, and instantly knew the answer to the unvoiced question. She had been taken, caught in a trap and brought to this ship; a ship which, with bitter irony, was bearing her to the very place which she and Tarod had so desperately needed to reach.

  But not this way - gods, not this way!

  Knowing that she’d have but one chance, and it was her only hope, Cyllan gathered all the mental strength she could muster, her mind reaching back towards ShuNhadek and the darkened room in the tavern. From some distance away she heard a choked-off imprecation, then someone whose coloured garb was in startling contrast to the white all about her appeared and ran towards where she lay.

  TAROD! Frantically the mental cry went out, though in her panic and confusion Cyllan didn’t know if she could hope to reach him. The white-clad sentry shifted from one foot to the other but gave no other sign that he had sensed her call - then he moved aside to make way for the other man, who stood looking down at her with anger and contempt.

  Keridil knew what she had done; she read the understanding in his eyes. Then he smiled and she felt despair.

  ‘Call your demon lover if it pleases you,’ the High Initiate said almost gently. ‘Chaos wields no power here, and he can’t reach across the water to your rescue.’ He paused, then the smile widened. ‘Yes; call him. Let him follow you, if he’s fool enough - and if he dares!’

  He turned and walked away, and she watched him go with misery in her eyes. Of course, that was exactly what the High Initiate wanted - for Tarod to be drawn to the White Isle in pursuit; to the absolute source of Aeoris’s power. And Tarod would follow them; and when he arrived, what would he find waiting for him … ?

  She turned her head aside, staring over the rail of the barque to the slate-dark sea beyond. She wouldn’t cry - nothing would induce her to give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears - but within, her soul was tearing apart.

  TAROD!

  The cry ringing in his mind was as loud as though someone had screamed his name in the room. Startled violently out of sleep Tarod sat up, his consciousness still vibrating with the sound - and in the same moment that he recognised the agonised voice, he realised that Cyllan was no longer beside him.

  ‘Cyllan -‘ Her name formed on his lips in a sharp hiss of alarm and he rose quickly, lithely from the bed, drawn by an unrecognised instinct to the window, where he hacked back the curtain.

  The street and the market square beyond were empty.

  The first Moon had sunk below the level of the rooftops and the second, smaller satellite was following, a dim and worn crescent in the West. Dawn wasn’t far away and, but for a faint scatter of stars mirrored by a few remaining lights in the harbour, there was nothing to be seen.

  Tarod swung round and stared at the room’s bland shadows. Mentally he sought the source of the cry, but found nothing. His only certainty was that Cyllan had gone.

  Swiftly he turned his concentration to the bounds of the inn itself and let his mind probe and seek. Other lodgers asleep in their beds; a couple, back to back, who had quarrelled before retiring; an austere merchant sharing his bed with a dockside whore whom he’d smuggled in; the tavern-keeper, his pallet made uncomfortable by the coins stowed beneath it … downstairs the deserted taproom, silent dining room; outside, the stables filled to capacity with dozing horses … but not a trace of Cyllan.

  Tarod’s left hand throbbed suddenly and the stone of his ring glared, drawing his attention. With the throbbing came the surge of an unhuman intuition that made his skin crawl, telling him that, wherever Cyllan was, he’d not trace her by normal means. He sank back on to the disordered bed, covering the ring with his right hand. He was reluctant to use sorcery, but there was no other choice open to him if he was to find her. And this way - he had to steel himself to the thought - he would know whether she was alive or dead.

  His green eyes closed and he felt the ancient power begin to awaken in him. It was painfully, exquisitely familiar and despite his misgivings he welcomed it, letting it rise through the many levels of awareness, finally to take hold of his consciousness. His eyes opened fractionally again, narrow emerald slivers that glittered now with an alien intelligence as Chaos-born understanding mingled with and then eclipsed the mundane. Scrying was a talent he’d developed during his years as an Adept, but this way bore no resemblance to the Circle’s formalised practice. He needed no glass, no invocation; and the planes on which his mind moved ranged far beyond anything his one-time peers might have aspired to.

  Darkness. The darkness moved, slowly and rhythmically, like the flank of some huge, amorphous beast as it breathed. A knife-blade of cold light stabbed across it, shivering and breaking with the swell, and he knew he looked down at the sea under the Moon’s last rays.

  It sailed on the sea, and yet he couldn’t reach it… He sensed the presence of something out there on the deep, but it was occluded, protected by a force that resisted his will, so that it slipped mockingly away when he thought he had it fast. Anger licked at his mind like fire; the proud, cold anger of an entity that would not tolerate being thwarted. He felt the power focus as he cast off the last links with the human body in the tavern at ShuNhadek; and that which sought out and finally, triumphantly grasped the elusiv
e presence on the sea was nothing mortal.

  White sails swelled ghostly in the dark as the huge white hull cleaved black water. The tongues of angry fire in Tarod flared to hatred and contempt as the great ship’s aura met and clashed with his own; it was inimical to what he had become, the vessel and the symbol of his despised enemy, and only a great exertion of will kept him from recoiling in revulsion.

  He could see no detail of the ship, but he needed none - this astral image was enough. The barque had taken her passengers in the dead of night, and now she sailed for the White Isle and the Conclave of Three. And Cyllan was on board …

  The fury erupted in him as Tarod’s mind smashed back to the body he had left behind in the dark bedchamber. Muscles contracted and jack-knifed him to his feet, and a black aura flickered into life and blazed about his frame. He couldn’t contain the rage; it was too great, too unhuman, out of control - but he had to contain it, had to hold fast to his humanity, fight the Chaotic will -

  With a choked-off shout he reeled back and fell on to the bed, and as his body struck the pallet something seemed to wrench free from his skull and disintegrate with a sound that was no sound but a jarring, sickening sensation. His head spun dizzily and he clawed at the pillow beneath him, needing something real and earthly that would give him an anchor. After a few moments the spinning receded, though it left him sick and drained.

  Slowly, painfully, Tarod sat upright.

  He hadn’t been prepared for the power of the primeval hatred that had surged up within him as he encountered the White Barque of Aeoris. It had been an enmity too ancient to comprehend, and he had reacted with all the loathing and contempt locked away in millennia of preternatural memories. Clinging to his identity at the last, he had fought the power and conquered it; but he had paid a price for the victory. And though he might have found Cyllan, he couldn’t cross the barrier that separated them.

  Still dazed, and hardly knowing what he was doing, Tarod reached for his clothes and began to dress. Everything took too long; he was acutely conscious of being hampered by the constraints of a physical body, and memory of the power that still lurked, though dormant now, in his soul tore at him.

  It would be so simple … He paused, staring at the ring on his left hand. Chaos was a titanic force - but on this earthly plane he was master of Chaos. Once he had banished Yandros, destroying his one sure foothold in this world, and the golden-haired lord couldn’t return unless Tarod were to revoke the banishment and summon him again. If he did, the White Barque and all its crew would be no match for such an adversary …

  Appalled rejection came hard on the heels of the thought, and Tarod was shocked to realise how close he had come to falling prey to the temptation. With the aftermath of the Chaos force still making his skin tingle he had felt the old affinities rising; had wanted Yandros’s presence as ally and long-time companion … and he knew that such a temptation was the opportunity for which the Chaos lord had been waiting all along.

  Yandros would answer the summons, should he utter it.

  And with his return, all Tarod’s hope of petitioning Aeoris would be ashes. If he was to prove his loyalty to Order, then to call on Chaos now, even in desperate need, would be the ultimate betrayal.

  Even to save Cyllan’s life … ?

  The silent question was as insidious as it was deceitful.

  To summon Yandros might save Cyllan from the peril she faced aboard the barque, but beyond that it could achieve nothing. The Circle wouldn’t harm her, not yet; with the White Isle and the Conclave so close, Keridil would have other plans for her. And that gave him time - little time, true, but enough.

  Tarod’s hands were steadier as he continued to dress.

  Though the unholy thoughts were banished, the dark seemed to have closed in about the room; had he not known better, he might have imagined that a presence stood motionless in the deepest shadows of the far corner, watching: if he attuned his mind he could almost convince himself that he wasn’t entirely alone.

  He made to gather up his cloak, then thought better of it. There was no need for disguise now. As he moved quietly to the door he paused, and smiled towards the dark, silent corner.

  He said softly: ‘Not this time, Yandros … ‘

  The door tapped gently to behind him.

  The second Moon’s distorted crescent was sinking into the sea, and, with dawn less than an hour away, mist had stolen up from the water to drift patchily through the town and lie in pale, deceptive pools about the streets and the market square. Tarod, dark as a shadow in the plain black clothes for which he’d abandoned the richer merchant’s garb, moved silently down a long alley, past shuttered taverns, and emerged on to the harbour docks.

  The harbour was deserted. With only the last scatterings of starlight to relieve it the dark was almost absolute; only the silhouette of a fishing boat hunched at its mooring and rocking lightly showed blacker against the leaden water. Tarod moved towards it, found the jetty steps and climbed down until a faint shifting glimmer and a sullen, rhythmic slapping sound told him he had reached the tide level.

  He crouched on the algae-coated stair and gazed at the water, clearing his mind of all but the one, immediate thought that concerned him. To his left and above a shadow moved; he saw the eyes of a feral cat reflecting the sea’s faint phosphorescence as it peered curiously over the wall at him; then, noiselessly, it ran away.

  Tarod took a fresh hold on his concentration, and sent out the soft mental call …

  He had never attempted to communicate with such creatures before, but something beyond even his normal instincts told him that they would come. They had aided Cyllan once when without them she would have drowned in the ferocious seas off the Castle stack. And he felt intuitively that they would aid him now.

  When the first sleek head broke surface a short distance out from the dock, Tarod released the pent breath that had been tightening in his lungs and smiled with relief. He had thought he might sense their presence before they arrived, but the fanaani had allowed him no forewarning. Curious, but aware that his was a mind of an order they had never touched before, they had made their approach in secret, and only when three of the beautiful, cat-like sea beasts had risen to the surface did Tarod feel the first faint brush of telepathic contact.

  Strange … The word was the nearest interpretation a human being could make of the thought that reached him from the fanaani’s alien minds. They were unsure of him, and nothing he could say or do would persuade them to hasten their judgement, or influence it. These sea-creatures were a law unto themselves; no one could fathom their thoughts or motivations. But, if a mind were truly open, it was possible to communicate with them in their own bizarre way.

  He let his thoughts touch them in turn, sensed the curiosity again.

  Will you aid me? Like them, Tarod used concepts rather than words, images which he translated into a form they might understand far better than speech. The nearest of the three creatures rolled in the water, hardly creating a ripple; it was man-sized and he had a glimpse of deep intelligence in its eyes as it solemnly regarded him.

  Secret. The thought was accompanied by a quiver of voiceless laughter, and he realised that the fanaani had read in him the need to reach the White Isle unbeknown to anyone, and were amused by the idea. Then came another concept: a land-animal slipping down through green depths, not breathing, fading, dying. Tarod smiled faintly as he realised that he was that land-animal and the fanaani were commenting pityingly on his inability to swim a distance which was, to them, nothing.

  He responded with the idea of a fanaan attempting to walk on land, completing the image with an ironical query. The fanaan blinked, rolled again, then slid beneath the sea’s surface with barely a ripple. When it reappeared some seconds later, there was a new concept in its mind.

  Why?

  It was probing his purpose, and Tarod sensed that any attempt to dissemble would alienate it and its fellows.

  The fanaani demanded honesty in r
eturn for their aid, and he opened his thoughts to them, allowing them to probe his intentions and his purpose and make what sense they could of them. The wait seemed interminable; but at last he felt the strange, seeking minds withdraw from his. And then:

  Too soon. Light above.

  Tarod glanced involuntarily upward. The stars were gone, and the sky had begun to lighten. When he looked again at the fanaani he saw that their dense, brindled fur was losing its night phosphorescence.

  Dark above. Come then. Come to this place… And, clear in his mind though the image was from a seaward viewpoint, he saw a cove where waves rushed on a narrow bar of grey sand. To one side the cliff jutted aggressively out, and here the tide’s constant assault had worn away a soft stratum and cut a soaring arch through the rock spur. It was an unmistakable landmark, and it was all he needed.

  Two of the fanaani, which throughout the exchange hadn’t come close to the jetty, were already turning and moving slowly out to sea. Tarod exchanged a last look with the third creature and projected gently, My thanks.

  They were gone with scarcely a ripple, and he rose, flexing cramped muscles and satisfied with what had been achieved. Uncertain allies though they were reputed to be, the fanaani hadn’t failed him; and when the Sun set tonight they would return to fulfil their promise.

  A line of colour like dark, dried blood lay along the Eastern horizon now. Tarod climbed the jetty steps, paused a moment to look back at the slow swell of the sea, then walked away towards the tavern.

  The cove which the fanaani had shown him lay some nine miles East of ShuNhadek, where the previously gentle shoreline changed to form the far higher and less hospitable cliffs that dominated the coastlines of three provinces before finally falling away to the Great Eastern Flatlands. The place was known locally as Haven Point and had been the salvation of many a fisherman caught far from harbour in bad weather; but it was only rarely used, and there was no habitation near by. Tarod had left the tavern early, telling the landlord that he intended to spend the day riding for pleasure, while his wife, who was feeling tired, would remain in bed. By the time anyone tapped on the door to ask if the vintner’s lady required food or drink he would be long gone, and the money he had left in the room, when added to the value of Cyllan’s abandoned mare, would more than pay for their lodging.