The Master

by Louise Cooper

  ‘You must be thirsty.’ The voice impinged on her thoughts and she looked up with a start to see Sashka standing over her. She held a cup in one hand and the faint traces of a smile touched her features. ‘Or do you have other matters on your mind?’ the girl added with undisguised malice.

  Cyllan ignored her, and with a graceful movement Sashka seated herself on a convenient bench. She sipped at the cup’s contents, grimaced and said, ‘Water, and brackish water at that … I suppose we can expect no better in these barbarous surroundings. Although I’d advise you to make the most of it. It’s quite probably the last drink you’ll ever taste.’

  Her taunt was a clear indication of her temper, and gave Cyllan an insight into the depths of Sashka’s anger and resentment. She allowed a small bark of laughter to escape her lips, and the other girl’s cheeks coloured.

  ‘I’m glad to find you in such good heart, Cyllan.

  Lightness of spirit is a rare quality in one on the brink of death - you’re an example to us all.’

  Cyllan’s only response to her sarcasm was to lean her head back against the wall and close her eyes. Sashka’s mouth tightened into a vicious line. ‘So you’re not moved by the idea of dying?’ Her voice had risen in pitch and some of the others were watching her curiously; she ignored them, caring nothing for their opinion. ‘You’re very courageous. I’m sure that courage will prove most entertaining when you watch Tarod destroyed before your turn comes!’

  That provoked the reaction she had hoped for.

  Cyllan’s eyes snapped open, filled with a mixture of rage and misery which gave Sashka considerable satisfaction.

  She would have been more gratified had it been Tarod rather than Cyllan bearing the brunt of her venom - she had often lain awake at night, imagining how she would taunt him, what she would say - but this was pleasurable enough, and a small revenge.

  ‘Ah,’ she said softly. ‘So you are afraid … Have you only just realised that your lover isn’t invincible? That he will die, and his death will be no less ugly and agonising than your own?’ She stood up, took three slow paces until she was directly in front of Cyllan, and sighed theatrically. ‘I believe I rather pity you.’

  Cyllan wanted to maintain her stony silence, but the churning, bitter rage inside her was too strong.

  ‘Save your energies,’ she said ferociously. ‘I want none of your taint.’

  Sashka made a moue and studied her fingernails with an air of infinite, martyred patience. ‘It’s a shame that you’re so stubborn, Cyllan. You could still save yourself, you know.’ She looked up, saw Cyllan glaring at her, and smiled with sweet kindness. ‘Even after all you’ve done, I believe the High Initiate could be persuaded to show clemency towards you, if you were to renounce your - let us say, your misguided loyalties.’

  Oh yes, Cyllan thought; that would serve your vanity very well! Not only would Sashka succeed in depriving Tarod of his one true ally, she would doubtless take great satisfaction from letting him know that ally had deserted him; and her motives were painfully clear.

  Mingled with her hatred of Tarod was a warped echo of the desire she had once felt for him, and perhaps felt still. And though she claimed to loathe him, she couldn’t bear the thought of his allegiance turning elsewhere. She wanted him to love her still, so that she could have the pleasure of hurting him by her rejection. Suddenly, Cyllan could almost feel sorry for Keridil Toln.

  Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Sashka shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s of no moment to me, of course. But you can hardly be blamed for lacking the wisdom to understand matters such as these.’ She smiled again, and added with a patronising confidentiality, ‘I suspect I know Tarod better than you could ever hope to do, and he has always had a talent for persuasion. But there are those who are capable of seeing through his deceptions, and those who are not. In truth, Cyllan, I feel it’s a little harsh to condemn you for what is, after all, only unwitting ignorance.’

  For one blinding moment Cyllan wished with all her being that she had the Chaos stone in her hands once more. She remembered the blazing glory of its power when it had flooded and overtaken her; the indescribable thrill of revenge and bloodshed when Drachea Rannak had fallen before her Chaos-driven fury …

  getting a grip on herself she drew a deep breath and banished the images to the dark recess where they belonged. Sashka Veyyil was no Drachea, no threat; she was no better than a jealous and spiteful child, and to make more of her taunts than was warranted would be folly.

  But whatever wisdom dictated, her self-control refused to bow to it. Nothing she could say or do would harm Sashka; the girl was triumphant and relishing her ascendancy. Yet - for Tarod’s sake if nothing else - Cyllan couldn’t bear to allow her vindictiveness to go uncountered.

  She looked up, her eyes glittering, and said huskily, ‘Have you ever looked upon Chaos, Sashka Veyyil?’

  The words had come unbidden to her tongue, and as she spoke she felt an alien sensation, like a psychic charge, welling within her, fuelled by her anger. It was akin to the uncontrollable and unpredictable power she had sometimes been able to command as a fortune-reader, but stronger; far stronger. And it made Sashka tense with sudden unease …

  Cyllan smiled, coldly. ‘No … I thought not. But you will. One day.’ She felt the psychic charge taking a tighter grip on her, as though some unnameable power were speaking through the medium of her voice, and the soft laughter that issued from her throat wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘That’s my promise to you, Sashka - and it’s my curse on you.’

  Sashka blanched, and the hand that held the cup shook. For a moment stark fear showed in her eyes - then fury replaced it, and with a violent gesture she hurled the remains of the water directly into Cyllan’s face, whirled, and strode away.

  The shock of the water shattered the hold of the peculiar power, and brought Cyllan jarringly back to reality. She blinked, shaking her head to clear her eyes - her bound wrists made it impossible to do more - and looked towards the far end of the vault, where Sashka had retreated. In the dimness she could just make out the colour of the other girl’s gown, and the faces of the rest of the company, who were all staring curiously at her. She looked away, resuming her slumped posture.

  The brief surge of furious psychism had left her feeling desolate, and her threat to Sashka now seemed a hollow sham. She had no power to curse, and hatred alone couldn’t translate her words into reality. She had had the momentary pleasure of seeing terror in Sashka’s eyes, but it gave her no comfort.

  She wondered whether Yandros knew what had become of his plans and of the promise she had made to him. Here on the White Isle, the seat of Aeoris’s strength, he could bring no influence to bear; even Tarod, were he to be willing, might find his power so diminished in this place that he was unable to call on the Chaos lord. And without some aid from a plane beyond this earthly world, what hope was there?

  A shuffling footfall close by made her look up, and she was surprised to see the elderly scholar bending over her.

  The old man smiled a lopsided smile. ‘You seem to have greatly displeased our High Initiate’s consort,’ he said drily. ‘And I saw that you didn’t receive a drink, at least not in the accepted sense.’ He proffered a brimming cup. There’s more than enough to go around.’

  Nothing in his tone suggested mockery or sarcasm, and Cyllan returned the smile hesitantly. Then she held up her bound hands. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take advantage of your kindness.’

  ‘Allow me … ‘ He held the cup to her lips, waited while she drank, then smiled again. ‘Better, I imagine?’

  Cyllan swallowed. ‘Yes - thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘I hope you’re recovered from the climb.’

  ‘Well recovered - though you’re the only one apart from Sister Malia who’s been courteous enough to ask.’

  He studied her for a few moments before adding, ‘You’re not entirely what I’d been led to expect.’

  Cyllan’s initial feeling of gratitude towards the old man soured
a little at that; and her tone took on a frosty edge. ‘And what had you been led to expect?’

  ‘Oh, the usual products of superstition,’ he told her, unperturbed. ‘Something less and yet more than human.

  Certainly not an obviously intelligent and - forgive me - ordinary girl who might be anyone’s daughter or sister.’

  Cyllan bit her lip hard. ‘If you’re about to tell me that I’ve reached this pass through no fault of my own, and that it isn’t too late to save myself, you might as well save your breath.’ Her amber gaze flickered to meet his in angry resentment. ‘I made my choices a long time ago.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment.’ The old man’s wry smiled returned briefly. ‘I’m simply interested by your story. I’m a scholar, you see - Isyn by name - and I have a particular interest in the wide varieties of human nature. I’m always seeking to extend the boundaries of my knowledge and understanding.’

  Cyllan’s lip curled. ‘You’ll find little for your researches here, Isyn. I have nothing to offer you.’ Her anger was returning, though in a quieter form. ‘Unless, of course, Tarod should come here in search of me. That might satisfy your desire for new knowledge.’

  Isyn chuckled. ‘I trust not! But tell me - and I ask only in a spirit of understanding - aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid?’ said Cyllan dully.

  He gestured towards the vault door. ‘Of what lies ahead of you. For want of a better word, your fate.’

  Cyllan realised suddenly that to Isyn - perhaps to all of them - she was a curiosity, like the unfortunate mutants sometimes exhibited at Quarter-Day fairs; something to be tormented, or exclaimed over and discussed in erudite language, depending on the viewer’s proclivities; but not a thinking, feeling creature in her own right. She had joined the throngs of market-square gawpers often enough in the past; she knew, now, how such mutants must feel. And suddenly she understood, in a way she had never done before, Tarod’s contempt for them all; Circle, Margravate and Sisterhood alike.

  She must hold to that feeling - whatever else might befall her, she must hold to it.

  She said with dignity, ‘No, I’m not afraid.’

  Cyllan’s stony indifference at last deterred Isyn, and Sashka made no more efforts to taunt her; she was left alone with her thoughts while the others kept ostentatiously away. And she couldn’t judge how much time passed before the sound of a key turning in the lock drew the attention of everyone in the vault.

  Two Guardians appeared in the doorway; beyond them Cyllan could see at least two more in the tunnel.

  One spoke in the now familiar flat tones.

  The Conclave is ending. The attendance of those who have accompanied the triumvirate is required.’

  Glances were exchanged; slowly the vault’s occupants got to their feet. Only Cyllan didn’t respond, and one of the Guardians moved to stand over her.

  ‘The attendance of all is required. There are no exceptions.’ He stared at the wall as he spoke, and Cyllan felt an impulse to lash out and kick him, just to see if it was possible to provoke a reaction in one of these bloodless zombies. She resisted it, along with the temptation to ignore him and simply sit here refusing to co-operate. If she didn’t go with the party of her own volition she would doubtless go by force; and the loss of her dignity wasn’t worth the hollow satisfaction of resisting.

  She struggled to her feet, hampered by her tied wrists, and followed the rest of the party through the door and along the dark tunnel beyond.

  As they emerged from the tunnel’s mouth, they were bathed in the dim and deceptive light of approaching dusk. Full day had come and gone while they waited in the underground gloom, and the Sun was an angry crimson ball against the sky’s murky backdrop. The Guardian who led them stared directly at the red inferno for a few moments, then turned to his charges and gestured to where the giant stairs continued on and up. Cyllan looked at the flight stretching away ahead and climbing the island’s humped shoulder, and saw that it seemed to terminate at a thin and razor-sharp ridge, barely discernible in the fading light. Beyond the ridge, a wall of dull grey-brown rock towered into the sky, its summit lost in darkening mist. The crater of an ancient and long-extinct volcano … and there, she knew, lay the sacred shrine, and the casket which had remained unopened since the seven Lords of Order had fought the last battle against Chaos.

  The Conclave was over and the decision had been taken. Night would fall long before the party reached that brooding summit, but when they did she would learn which way the decision had gone - and learn, too, what fate lay in store for her, and for Tarod should he fall into the trap set for him.

  She had clung thus far to a fierce pride and determination not to weaken, and they had sustained her through the voyage to the island and the long wait in the vault. But now, gazing up at the volcano’s unrelenting and lifeless slope, and knowing what lay beyond, she felt fear eating into the core of her soul.

  *****

  The fanaani had let him go as the pinnacles of the Isle loomed out of the dark, waves crashing glaringly white against their sheer slopes. He felt their sleek bodies slide away from beneath his hands, heard a thrilling cascade of notes above the sea’s roar, then he was striking out towards the towering rocks under his own volition. A powerful cross-current caught him and bore him at tremendous speed towards a savage gash in the cliff, where titanic boulders had smashed its symmetry in an aeonold fall. He glimpsed the yawning mouth of a cave half submerged under the tide, then fanged rocks rose out of the blackness and he had to exert all his physical strength to avoid being dashed against them. Seeing clear water momentarily ahead he struck out towards the cliff fissure; another wave, breaking, swept him into the shore, and twisting about at the last moment, he felt his hands graze on rock as he struck hard against the cliff. The rock was rough and broken enough to grip; he hung on as the huge undertow drew back, and before the next wave could come thundering in he had pulled himself clear of the sea.

  He was on a steeply sloping ledge, and, gaining a foothold, he climbed higher until he reached a point where the tide could no longer wash over him and drag him back. Salt water streamed from his hair; his clothes clung to him and his body was bruised and lacerated by the impact; for some minutes he could only crouch on the precarious ledge struggling for breath.

  A sound, faint but clear, mingled with the rolling thunder of the sea; the fanaani’s shivering, farewell song as they swam clear of the island. They were away to whatever strange depth or shore was home to them; he raised a hand in a salute of thanks though he knew they could no longer see him, then their bittersweet voices faded, faded and were gone.

  Both Moons were up; one a thin, chill crescent, the other a vaster, dimmer sphere at the full. The speed at which the sea-creatures bore him here had been awesome; there were hours yet to go before dawn began to break … he turned his head, gazing up at the stone ramparts rising behind him. The dead volcano at the centre of the island was invisible, hidden by the night and the cliffs, but the cliffs could be climbed, and he knew he could reach his final destination before the Sun came out of the East to reveal his presence. He felt the answering tingle of power in his left hand as the stone of his ring flared with sudden brilliance. Yes … here, he could trust himself to use the strength of Chaos, knowing that it couldn’t overtake him or sway him from his goal. He flexed his fingers, and felt a new and unhuman strength course through his blood, negating tiredness and exhaustion. Tarod smiled and, rising to his feet, moved silently across the ledge to where the cliff fissure gaped black and waiting.

  Chapter 12

  The High Margrave Fenar Alacar rose from the centremost of the three carved stone chairs. The peculiar light that suffused through the musty, windowless chamber etched lines of shadow on his young face, making him look older than his years, but it couldn’t disguise the uncertainty in his eyes as he cleared his throat and then, nervously and with frequent hesitation, spoke the formal words that ended the Conclave.

  ‘I, Fenar Alacar,
elevated by grace of our lord Aeoris to rule as High Margrave, declare that the triumvirate has spoken as one, and all have set their seals to this resolution. The decision of the Conclave is that the casket of Aeoris shall be opened. And I charge and call upon the High Initiate, Keridil Toln, to be the instrument through which this sacred task shall be undertaken.’ His gaze flickered to Keridil’s impassive face and he licked his lips nervously, certain that he had spoken the words correctly but still unsure of himself in the presence of his older and more experienced peers.

  Keridil returned the gaze for a moment, then he too rose from his seat and stepped forward until he faced the young Margrave. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed low before Fenar.

  ‘I am sensible of the honour done me, and sensible of the grave responsibility which I undertake.’ Now he turned to face the third and final member of the triumvirate, who was also rising, though with some difficulty, from her chair. He bowed to her in turn. ‘I ask the blessing of the Lady Matriarch, mother and comforter of us all, to grant me succour in this momentous hour.’

  Ilyaya Kimi, magnificent in her silver veil, reached out an arthritic hand to touch Keridil’s brow as he made a knee before her. ‘The clear light of Aeoris shine upon you, my son and my priest. May you walk always in His path of wisdom.’

  Keridil straightened, and both he and the Matriarch turned to face Fenar once more. The High Margrave nodded.

  ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Let the portal be opened and the decision of this Conclave made known.’

  They made a strange threesome, Keridil thought with a curiously detached part of his mind as he led them across the faintly shimmering stone floor; an old, old woman barely able to walk, an unfledged boy, and a man who, whilst he presented a properly confident face to the world, was besieged by doubts and fears which he couldn’t even name. But they were the best the world had to offer to its gods. The ultimate temporal power had been invested in them and, whatever their misgivings, they must do their utmost to be worthy.