He was glad to leave the busy town behind for the peace of the countryside, and took the narrow track along the coast. His horse was skittish after being confined in the inn stables and he gave it its head, enjoying the sensations of a ground-eating canter as he rode towards the climbing Sun.
He saw the cove’s location long before he reached it; a long spur of rock jutting out into the sea ahead, with an almost perfectly symmetrical arch cut through its narrow finger. He had perhaps a mile or two more to go, and slowed the gelding to a walk, allowing it to loiter and crop at the lush Spring turf. He had the day ahead of him with nothing to do but wait; there was no need to hurry.
Half an hour later Tarod reached the cove and sat in the saddle gazing down the steep, crumbling cliff to the triangle of beach below. Noon was approaching and the bay was filled with red-gold light; from here he could see a narrow gulley in the cliff that formed a steep but negotiable way down to the sand.
He slid to the ground, and with relief shrugged off the heavily embellished cloak which had helped him maintain his assumed role as a merchant of substance. He also discarded his soft leather boots, knowing that from now on he’d be better served by going barefoot, and his belt-pouch, dropping them all carelessly on the grass.
Then he turned his attention to the horse, unsaddling it and leaving the harness beside his cloak. He rubbed the animal’s nose and it whickered softly at him before turning its attention eagerly to feeding. It didn’t as yet realise that he had given it its freedom; but rather than sell it for money that he’d have no use for, Tarod preferred to let it go. Doubtless in time someone would find it and take it for their own, as they’d find the clothes and coin he had left behind. If the abandoned possessions were recognised as belonging to the vintner who had stayed in ShuNhadek there would no doubt be speculation as to his real identity and his fate - but by then he would be beyond caring.
The gelding raised its head and watched with mild curiosity as Tarod walked away towards the head of the gulley, then it lost interest and resumed grazing. He didn’t look back at it, but stepped on to the steep path and began the precarious, slithering descent. It was easier than it had looked, and within a few minutes he reached the beach and walked out across the narrow strand to where the sea licked and surged. The sand was cold and damp underfoot, and sharp; composed of the tide-worn remains of uncountable millions of tiny shellfish. He stood at the water’s edge staring out to where he judged the White Isle must be, but the horizon was lost in haze and he could see no trace of it.
By now, the barque must have reached its destination … thoughtfully, Tarod turned back to where tumbled boulders provided a resting place. He believed Cyllan must still be alive and unhurt; knowing Keridil as he did, he doubted that the High Initiate would make any hasty decision on her fate. More likely he saw her as the perfect bait to lure his enemy to the Isle - and he was right; though the manner of Tarod’s arrival wouldn’t be quite what Keridil anticipated.
And when he did arrive, he asked himself, what then?
He had made his plans and was determined to see them through; but prior to this moment he had always turned aside from thinking too deeply about the consequences of what he meant to do. Now though, with the long afternoon stretching before him and nothing to do but sit and watch the sea, he had little defence against the questions and apprehensions that lurked unanswered in the back of his mind.
He was gambling not only his life but his very soul in the hope that he could appeal to the ultimate arbiter and be heard with sympathy. But so much had happened since he had first pledged to surrender the Chaos stone on the White Isle that he was no longer sure he could trust his own judgement. Innocent people had died at his hand and at Cyllan’s; and however great his justice or his mercy even Aeoris could not overlook those deeds or excise them. His own word must stand against Keridil’s when he made his plea - would the greatest of the Seven Gods be willing to hear an accused servant of Chaos, when the accuser was his High Initiate?
Tarod turned abruptly, angered by his thoughts.
There was no room for doubt; he daren’t let it get a foothold, for once it did it would take root and grow too fast to be contained. He had made his decision and mustn’t waver now; and besides, the choice was clear.
Order or Chaos - there was no middle way. He had begun on this path; he would see it through.
Nonetheless, his mood was far from happy as he returned to the rocks and settled himself for the long wait.
He realised later that he had slept a good part of the afternoon away, and when he woke the last light was glaring sullenly in the West, setting the cliff edges on fire. The cove was plunged in shadow; with the tide at the ebb it looked dank and chill and unfriendly, and cold was striking through Tarod’s thin shirt.
He rose, flexing his limbs to ease stiff muscles, and walked slowly down the beach to the tideline. Foam showed as a pale fringe at the water’s edge but beyond the waves all was dark, sea and sky no longer distinguishable. He wondered when they would come, and suppressed a shiver that had little to do with the bitter air.
Tarod couldn’t calculate how long he stood on the shore while the light faded finally into complete darkness. But at last he heard a faint, eerily sweet note, far away but discernible amid the hush of the sea. Moments later it was joined by another and then another, a bitterly pure harmony that thrilled through his bones and made his throat constrict. The song of the fanaani …
they were here, and they were waiting for him.
Tarod drew a deep breath and opened his mind to the first stirrings of the alien thoughts that probed his. At first they were composed of nothing but strange, phantasmic sea-images, but gradually they coalesced until clear words took form in Tarod’s mind.
Come … Join us … join us …
The dark was all but absolute, but as a wave rose to break at his feet he could see them, blacker shapes against the swell. Doubt and fear assailed him; he forced the feelings down and walked forward.
The sea swirled around his ankles, around his knees.
The beach shelved steeply, and the first wave that broke over him was an ice-cold shock that set his teeth on edge.
Tarod waited for the following wave and dived to meet it, surfacing in its backwash and shaking water from his hair and eyes. He had one last glimpse of the silent, brooding cove, then he struck out strongly for open water.
The fanaani met him as he cleared the cliffs’ embrace; three of them, as before, though whether they were the same creatures with whom he’d communicated at ShuNhadek harbour he couldn’t tell. Sleek, lithe bodies flanked him and he felt one beast brush against his body; treading water he reached out and laid an arm over its back to grasp the powerful, thickly furred shoulder, while a second swam to his other side to complete the link. Ahead of them now he could see the third clearly; a bigger animal, its coat dappled and its eyes, as it turned to regard him, calm and wise. He smiled, formed words of thanks in his mind, and the leading fanaan uttered a series of shivering, silver notes on an alien scale. As though the sound were a signal, the two creatures to either side of him surged forward. Tarod felt the heavy muscles bunching under his hands, saw the sea’s swell surging to meet him, then the fanaani were swimming easily and swiftly away, bearing him towards the black, empty horizon.
Chapter 11
The most eerie thing of all, Cyllan thought, was the profound silence with which the White Barque sailed slowly into harbour. There were no shouts or cries from her strange crew, no rattle and thunder as her towering sails were furled and the lines made fast; she seemed almost to have a life and a will of her own, for the ease with which she manoeuvred to her resting place and finally docked was unnerving.
A gaunt, indifferent Guardian had loosed the knots which bound Cyllan’s ankles, and though her wrists were still tied she had been able to kneel on deck and watch the sacred island approaching in the first cold light of dawn. Mist shrouded it until the ship was almost under its lee; then the Sun�
�s weak rays slanting in from the East had severed the mist and the Isle rose before them with shocking clarity. Grim rocks that seemingly offered no landing-place loomed out of the sea, dominated by a single titanic crag at the island’s centre; the huge, brooding shell of a long dormant volcano, a black silhouette against the paling sky. Cyllan had felt something of the aura that radiated from the place and turned her head away with a fearful shudder.
The barque sailed on, her crew caring nothing for the treacherous rocks that lurked just beneath the ocean’s surface and sometimes showed savage teeth above the creaming water. Then with no warning she turned landward, heeling in straight towards the cliff face so that Cyllan shut her eyes and hissed an imprecation under her breath. But there was no grinding, jarring impact, and when she dared to look again she saw that the vast rock face before them had split countless centuries ago to create a narrow channel through which the tide surged, and the barque was heading into its maw. They slid between giant, spray-soaked cliffs whose surface she felt she could almost reach out and touch; then gradually the tide-race quieted until the barque sailed in deep, calm water, silent as a white ghost.
And before them was their final destination …
Overhead the cliffs towered and almost met, the sky a thin, vicious dagger of brilliance far above. The shadows were so deep that the pier where the barque had come to rest was half hidden in gloom; but Cyllan could see that everything about this harbour, such as it was, had been hewn to a scale that bore no relation to human dimensions. The stones of the pier were monstrous blocks that an army of labourers would have been hard pressed to move an inch, and now men, pale as phantoms, were emerging from some unseen place to secure the ship to a gigantic capstan that dwarfed their figures. Behind them a flight of steps had been cut into the rock face, so huge that they might have been the work of giants; and she shivered as she recalled the nature of the unhuman feet that trod those stairs a millennium ago.
There was movement on deck, and she turned her head to see the barque’s other passengers emerging from whatever quarters they had inhabited below. At first, she didn’t recognise Keridil Toln; he had changed his clothes for more formal garb, and on his shoulders was a heavy ceremonial cloak, the fabric invisible beneath the weight of its gold-thread embroidery. The cloak’s high collar shadowed his face, but she could see the gold circlet that banded his fair hair, and in his hands he carried the staff of office of the High Initiate. He walked slowly towards the barque’s side, flanked by two of the Guardians, and Cyllan’s lungs and throat constricted; however much she hated him, however great an enemy he might be, she couldn’t help but be awed by the figure he presented.
Behind Keridil came Fenar Alacar, whey-faced and looking pitifully young in his ceremonial garb, his cloak a cascade of white fur over crimson and the huge single ruby that was the High Margrave’s badge glittering at his right shoulder. And lastly, with the careful tread of old age and infirmity, the Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi. As always she was dressed in the white robe of the Sisterhood, but her usual belt had been replaced by a silver sash, and on her head she wore a silver filigree circlet from which a cloth-of-silver veil swept almost to her feet.
Cyllan stood rigid as the small procession passed by only three paces from her. For a brief moment her gaze met Keridil’s; she saw the strain in his face and thought he gave her a look that mingled pity with contempt; then he was past and she turned away from the scrutiny of his companions.
The massive wall of the pier was on a level with the White Barque’s deck, and as the three members of the triumvirate crossed over, the waiting Guardians formed a tightly ranked escort to flank them as they stepped on shore. Cyllan stared after their retreating shapes until only a dim blur of white in the gloom marked their whereabouts - then her pulse lurched sickeningly as a hand, cold and light as a spider’s web, touched her shoulder.
The pale-eyed crewman didn’t look at her and didn’t speak. He simply gestured towards the rope-railed gangway that separated the ship from the dock, and before she was aware of what she did Cyllan found herself walking unsteadily towards it. She heard movement at her back but didn’t dare look round; then she was crossing the narrow divide over still, black water, to set foot, afraid and awestruck, on the White Isle.
Another hand touched her shoulder - she shuddered at the contact, finding it repulsive - and she was guided to the foot of the monstrous steps that wound up and out of sight. Keridil and his companions were no longer visible and she wondered if they had been taken this way - it was hard to believe that the aged Matriarch would have the stamina for such a climb. The stairs drew her gaze, frowning and fearsome; again she felt the chilly touch of the island’s aura, and shivered.
Other people were now being escorted from the ship - two men she’d not seen before, wearing the badges of Adepts; another, older man whose garb suggested a scholar; two Sisters of Aeoris; and - Cyllan felt her jaw tighten - a tall, patrician girl with auburn hair that rippled over her shoulders. Sashka Veyyil … Tarod’s one-time lover, who had betrayed him to the Circle and who was now enjoying her triumph as the High Initiate’s new consort. They had met once before, at the Castle, and the encounter was still a goad in Cyllan’s memory.
Sashka saw the fair-haired girl staring at her, and a flicker of a scornful smile crossed her beautiful face.
Then a white-clad Guardian moved between them, and gestured silently towards the gigantic stairs.
Cyllan had steeled herself for an exhausting climb to the gods alone knew what destination at the top of the terrible flight, but it was not to be. Instead, the small party had toiled a bare hundred stairs when their escort led them off into the black maw of a tunnel that gaped out of the dark rock. For a while they walked in darkness, the quiet broken only by the stertorous breathing of the old scholar as he tried to regain his wind; then the tunnel opened into a high but narrow chamber, lit from some undetectable source above and furnished only with a wooden table and several benches. They moved into the chamber, uncertain what was required of them, and one of the dispassionate Guardians spoke.
The Conclave of Three is about to begin.’ His voice echoed thinly in the vault. ‘Those who have accompanied the triumvirate will remain here until summoned.
One of the Sisters spoke up, though diffidently. ‘The High Margrave’s adviser has been adversely affected by the climb, Guardian. He needs something to help him recover his strength.
‘Sustenance will be given.’ The Guardian’s manner didn’t waver and Cyllan was unnerved by the way in which these strange men - if men they were - seemed incapable of addressing anyone directly. He started to turn away, but suddenly Sashka stepped forward.
‘Guardian.’ She clearly wasn’t hampered by the Sister’s diffidence, and there was an indignant edge to her voice. ‘You’re surely not intending to leave this creature here?’ One finger pointed imperiously at Cyllan. ‘She’s the High Initiate’s prisoner, and an ally of Chaos! She should be confined somewhere where she can present no threat to the rest of us!
The white-clad man turned his disinterested gaze on her and appeared to stare straight through her; and two spots of colour flamed high on Sashka’s cheeks.
‘All will remain here until summoned,’ the Guardian repeated flatly. There will be no opportunity for mischief.’ And turning on his heel he left the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Sashka whispered something under her breath and swung angrily about, pacing towards the far end of the vault. The Sister intercepted her path and spoke to her, clearly intending to soothe, but she snapped a harsh word and the other woman retreated. Cyllan sank down near the door, squatting on her haunches and ignoring the others as they milled about and murmured uneasily to each other. Sashka’s remark to the Guardian had stung, but was no less than she might have expected; at their first encounter intuition had told her that there was more to the auburnhaired girl’s enmity than met the eye. No matter; Sashka was nothing to her … and she had far more immediate and deep-ro
oted worries to concern her.
The Conclave was taking place at this very moment; and Tarod’s future hung in the balance of its outcome.
Since the moment when Keridil Toln had mockingly challenged and encouraged her to call on Tarod and bring him to her aid she had known that her presence here was playing into the High Initiate’s hands, and she bitterly regretted the fact that Tarod’s love for her would make him seek her out, no matter what the risk to himself. If he had heard her psychic call, the scruples that had so far prevented him from using his power would count for nothing. He’d use it and he would come to find her - as Keridil well knew. It was a perfectly baited trap, and nothing she could do would put matters to rights. Even as the White Barque glided slowly into harbour she had sensed the peculiar isolation of this island, and knew that any attempt she made to contact Tarod again and warn him would fail. He’d follow her here, and when he stepped on to the White Isle’s shore his enemies would be waiting.
Her unhappy reverie was broken by the sound of the door beside her opening, and she looked up to see an empty-eyed youth in the now familiar white garb of the Guardians entering the vault. He carried a tray laden with a pitcher, several cups and a plate of what looked like coarse black bread, which he set down on the table.
He didn’t utter a word, no one spoke to him, and seconds later he was gone and a key grated metallically in the lock.
Glad of a diversion, however small, Cyllan watched as the Sister who had asked for sustenance filled a cup from the pitcher’s contents and took it, with a piece of the coarse bread, to the old scholar. Their hushed voices reverberated in the rock chamber although it was impossible to discern what they said, and Cyllan looked away again, slumping forward and resting her head on her folded arms.
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