by Janny Wurts
'Who else could keep Alliance councilmen, Kor's priests, and a flighty mess of royalty in agreement enough to lead an army?' The Kielmark gestured in exasperation. 'I have to go. I'm the only one who can threaten both trade and their treasuries. D'you know any better way of keeping humanity in accord?'
Corley grinned. A little colour returned to his face. 'You're Keithland's most likely candidate for a fine, solid citizen, right enough.'
'Fires,' snapped the Kielmark, for once intolerant of his first captain's sarcasm. 'Slack the discipline while I'm gone, and I'll flay your hide from your heels up.' As if reluctant to continue, he stopped, straightened, and twisted his jewelled torque from his neck. He cast the circlet on to the boards, and gold clanged sourly between his fist and his first captain's hand. 'If any man questions your right to command, that's my token.'
Corley swallowed, speechless. Light came and went like flame in the heart of the rubies as the Kielmark leaned across the window. He hooked his baldric from the marble arms of the cherub, then tossed his great sword over his back. Neither man spoke as he crossed the chamber; but both understood that the torque on the table was as close as this sovereign would come to naming a successor.
'Watch your back, friend,' Corley whispered at last.
The Kielmark paused by the doorway, wary as always, but smiling. 'Speak for yourself,' he said roughly. Then he strode without farewell into the candleless gloom of the hall.
* * *
Ladywolf raised anchor within the hour. Jaric stood at her rail, hands laced over the cross guard of his own sword, newly reclaimed from the armoury where it had lain since the last time Corley made port with Moonless. From the deck by his side, Taen regarded the weapon with trepidation. Traditionally, Vaere-trained sorcerers disdained to carry steel; but when Anskiere began training to refine this Firelord's talents, Ivainson claimed the blade for his focus. Neither reason nor propriety could induce him to revert to the usual staff. The newest sorcerer sworn to service by the Vaere owned an obstinacy that even a Dreamweaver who loved him dared not cross.
Taen's preoccupied silence passed unnoticed as the Kielmark shouted orders to his boatswain; feet thumped on planking, and crewmen surged up the ratlines to make sail. By itself, Jaric's dissent was a mere defiance of form; but when Stormwarden and Firelord were together, the Dreamweaver noticed each one guarded his thoughts. That uneasiness troubled her; for, to combat the demons of Shadowfane, the two sorcerers must work mind within mind, attuned in flawless rapport.
The boatswain shouted. Canvas cascaded from the yards with a crack and a slither of boltropes. Poised to work his mastery on the foredeck, the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer lifted his head, his eyes the grey of rain beneath an overcast. He wore a sailor's tunic of plain, bleached linen, knotted at the waist with a sash worked in silver. But simple clothes could never mask the magnitude of his powers. His touch with the wind seemed effortless, deft with a proficiency born through decades of experience.
Jaric watched the sails clap smartly into curves overhead, the mild, wistful expression Taen associated with admiration on his face. As the Ladywolf shuddered and steadied into a heel, he smiled, his hair tumbled by the eddies off the headsails. 'Anskiere's control is matchless. If I tried something comparable, like lighting the galley fire with sorcery, I'd probably crisp everything to the waterline.'
'You'll improve.' Taen leaned hard into her man's shoulder, heartened by his enthusiasm for his new craft. But her contentment faltered as the Stormwarden glanced aside and noticed the Firelord watching him.
Dark brows lowered almost to a frown; then, without greeting or encouragement, Anskiere strode aft.
Ivainson's exhilaration withered, and Taen felt tension harden the muscles of his forearm. 'What happened at the ice cliffs?' she demanded impulsively. 'Why should the Prince of Elrinfaer distrust you?'
Jaric considered his sword, as if inanimate Corlin steel might answer her query for him. His eyes turned deep, uncipherably intense, and he spoke at last with bitterness. 'Anskiere believes that one day I will betray my own kind as my father did.' Suddenly restless, he drew back, as if the very air might burn him. Taen clung to the rail. She did not follow as Jaric left her side. The quality of the Firelord's silence suggested that he had tried his utmost, in some manner even abandoned pride; still he had failed to assure Anskiere of Elrinfaer that his inheritance included no portion of his sire's mad malice.
* * *
Night fell, cloudy and fitful with gusts, over the Corine Sea. Despite the prevailing weather, the sky above Ladywolfs masthead remained star-strewn and clear; her sails curved to the steady winds of a broad reach. On deck, the Kielmark remained braced against the rail long after the gleam of Cliffhaven's light tower vanished astern. His brigantine fared alone upon the sea. The bulk of the fleet stayed behind to defend Mainstrait; except for the picked company of men on board, the campaign to recapture Morbrith depended upon garrison troops to be levied from Corlin. The Duke at least maintained proper discipline, if the proficiency of his men at arms fell short of Cliffhaven's exacting standards. The Lord of Renegades frowned at the sparkle of phosphorescence churned up by the wake. Since no action could be taken until his vessel reached shore, he brooded; stable conditions left his crewmen idle, and himself more time than he liked for thought.
* * *
One fair day melted into the next. Ladywolf logged league after league at a steady twelve knots, but for Jaric the crossing did not lack challenge. Striving to master the nuances of a sorcerer's craft, he secluded himself in the chart room from morning till dark with the icy weight of his sword balanced across his knees. The weapon was the gift of Telemark the forester, granted on the eve that a boy had left Seitforest for his destiny as Firelord's heir. More than once the blade had drawn blood; never had it slain, but the armourer who had done the forging well knew his trade. From keen edge to the blue-black gloss of temper, the steel was fashioned expressly to maim. Jaric strove to change its nature. Yet day after exhausting day, success eluded him. A fortnight of effort had yielded no progress at all.
The Firelord sat back against the chart locker and sighed in frustration. Sunset had long since faded. Light from the deck lantern gilded the salt-crusted panes of the stern window, and shadow swathed the corners like velvet. The wear and creak of seagoing wood seemed abnormally loud, until Jaric recalled that the sailhands would be crowded in the galley at this hour. He should have been hungry, but supper did not interest him. Although the weight of the blade wore grooves in his thighs, quitting never entered his mind. He had not chosen the weapon for its deadly potential, as Anskiere believed. To marry power with a blade designed for killing might instead remind that the heritage of a Firelord tended ever toward terror and destruction. Jaric set his hands to the sword. Determined to complete what he had started, he closed his eyes in concentration.
He tuned his Earthmaster's perception to the blade. Like stone, or soil, or the symmetrical crystals of a mineral, the metal was composed of brightness; pinpoint eddies of energy interlocked and delicately balanced. Jaric embraced the pattern with his mind. Then he drew a filament of flame from his Sathid bond. With the care of a man unravelling spider silk, he endeavoured to weave that energy, warp into weft through the steel. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples. To thread dissimilar powers through a structure of such delicacy taxed every resource he possessed; each attempt since dawn had ended the same way. Strain sustained for too long marred his control. Jaric cried out in dismay, even as energies strayed, jostling the symmetry of the metal fractionally out of alignment. The blade in his lap glared red, then white, disrupted by fire that licked and twisted to break free.
The Firelord stilled his inner mind. Heat beat unpleasantly against his flesh. The stresses of confined sorcery hammered his nerves like pain. He licked dry lips, tried to push back the fear that curled through his gut. This time his spell had progressed too far for retreat. Tired, and discouraged by knowledge that Anskiere could weave storm into a feather i
nside a fraction of an instant, he forced himself steady. No recourse remained but to correct his mistake.
'You're nearly there,' said a voice at his shoulder. Cool hands slipped over Jaric's hot ones. A presence filled his mind like wavelets soaking gently into sand. 'Try this.' A prompt within his awareness flicked the fire-thread in another direction.
Jaric accepted the pointer; and like water breaking silver through a log jam, his spell unsnarled, lacing scarlet ribbons of energy through the steel. The process seemed utterly natural. Ivainson marvelled, wondering why he had not worked in harmony with the metal's innate pattern earlier. Excitedly he continued the configuration, until the swordblade rang along its length with stored force; Jaric joined the ends of the energy complete and looked up, to lanternlight and the still presence of Anskiere of Elrinfaer. The sorcerer's eyes were grey and clear and kindly, and he smiled.
'I think I understand now.' The Firelord lifted the weapon from his lap; its reddened glow touched his upturned features, underlighting his jaw to more angular contours, and lending his brows a pronounced arch. His gold hair gleamed copper with highlights. Through the touch still in his mind, Jaric shared the Stormwarden's viewpoint; for a split second, he beheld in himself the mirror image of his father, Ivain.
Anskiere flinched back. Sorcery answered by reflex, and his half-raised hands sparked blue. A whirlwind ripped into being, sharp with the bite of ozone. Charts flapped helter-skelter across the table, and the lantern pitched on gimballed mounts, flame extinguished in the draught.
'No!' Bashed backward into the bulkhead, Jaric dropped the sword. 'Ivain is dead!' His shout tangled with a belling clang as steel struck the deck at his feet.
The violence of Anskiere's reaction died away. Air winnowed, then stilled, and charts ruffled to rest. Beyond speech, the Stormwarden sat and bowed his head over sleeves of stainless white.
'I do understand.' Jaric raised himself awkwardly. 'Through Llondelei imaging I shared your grief at Elrinfaer's loss.' His voice turned edged with anguish. 'But how will we ever conquer demons? You can't trust, and I cannot be other than myself.'
Anskiere looked up, a tired half smile restored to his face. 'We shall manage, I think. Look.' And he pointed to the sword, which lay forgotten in the dark.
Steel forged by Corlin's armourer was ordinary no longer, but shining with the orange-red halo that marked the primary ward of a Firelord's staff. Two more auras soon would accompany that foundation, one a secondary level of power, and the third a protection against tampering by strangers. Like braiding, Jaric grasped the concept; intuitively he knew he could master the remaining sorceries more easily than the first.
Yet as he lifted the weapon, he damped the light of his accomplishment like guilt. 'What good is skill if you won't believe in me?'
Cloth rustled; Anskiere touched Ivainson's shoulder in darkness and sighed. 'I must learn how to forget the past. For in all ways that matter, Jaric, you are son to the friend I loved like a brother, before the Cycle of Fire overturned his humanity.'
* * *
Ivainson completed the defence wards on his sword in the heat of an Indian summer calm. The Corine Sea lay leaden and smooth, but Anskiere's winds held true; Ladywolf neared the shores of Hallowild late the following day. Trouble met her even before land appeared above the horizon.
The sun shone like a disc of tarnished gold through billowing veils of smoke. Sailhands gathered at the rail, while the King of Pirates himself climbed aloft to investigate.
Sweating in the heat, and clad in little but a sword belt and a matched pair of wristbands, the Kielmark swung down the ratlines. He passed his ship's glass to Anskiere, who waited on the deck, and said tersely, 'By the heading, I'd guess Seitforest is ablaze. The weevil in the oatmeal is, why?' '
Anskiere accepted the glass, but made no move to focus. 'Not lightning,' he said presently. 'The nearest thunderhead lies three hundred leagues due north. Nor could someone's cooking fire ignite the forest by wind. The air is dead still in that region. Taen might inform you better.'
The Dreamweaver was below decks, apparently asleep; the Kielmark ordered his steward to wake her, and also summon Jaric from the chart room. Then he turned cold eyes to the Stormwarden. 'Make a gale and drive this vessel into Corlin. She'll blow out sails for certain, but the damned sticks'll take it.'
But Taen Dreamweaver was not sleeping. When the Kielmark's steward reached the stern cabin, he found her berth empty. The enchantress was settled cross-legged on a sea chest, her eyes wide open and unseeing in the depths of trance. As leery of sorcery as his master, the man hesitated in the companionway; the creak of a hinge betrayed him. Taen started slightly. She blinked and shivered. As if she were dazed, her gaze focused slowly upon the servant poised to enter her cabin.
The next instant she shoved to her feet, urgent with alarm. 'Where's the Kielmark?' she said quickly. 'Send him here with both of the sorcerers. Peril has come to Hallowild.'
The steward spun and all but collided with his master, who chafed at delay and impetuously sought Taen himself. The servant recoiled, then wisely ducked clear before the Kielmark shoved him bodily from the companionway.
'Seitforest burns,' the Lord of Cliffhaven snapped directly. 'Can you tell why, girl?'
Taen met the Kielmark's impatience with a poise like edged steel. 'The Dark-dreamer brings us war like none fought in Keithland before.' She abandoned language; the unspeakable could be explained more efficiently through her talents. Dream-image sheared into the Kielmark's mind. He recoiled with a curse and a gasp as through the influence of sorcery he beheld Shadowfane's new army. The sight carried horror beyond all imagining.
Bull-mad with outrage, the King of Pirates roared out his orders before the vision was fully spent. Though called from below decks, his crewmen heard and obeyed his commands with alacrity. The brigantine came alive as men ran full tilt up the rigging. Canvas cracked from the yardarms, snapped into curves by the winds raised by sorcery. Ladywolf sheared into a violent heel and tossed Taen headlong from the trunk. The Kielmark's great fist caught her before she slammed into him. He righted her with a brusqueness that allowed no space for apology. 'Fetch the Firelord. We'll be ashore before nightfall, and both of you must be ready to land.'
* * *
Sunset came smudged by smoke pall. Though waters elsewhere lay polished under calm Ladywolf sheared into the estuary of the Redwater with her stuns'ls and flying jib flogged into tatters. Anskiere's winds dispersed, leaving canvas and snarled lines hanging limp as shreds on a scarecrow. While crewmen dropped anchor, a barge bearing ranking men at arms and the Duke's first commander approached from the quayside. As the craft pulled alongside, the officer confirmed Taen's initial dream-search in a voice inflected by fear.
Morbrith's dead had risen. Half-rotted corpses from the fields and towns took up swords, then marched in grisly ranks to pillage and desecrate and wreak ruin on domains to the south. Fire might stop them. To that end, panicky farmsteaders led by a priest had set Seitforest ablaze, then prayed vainly for a breeze to arise and spare their fields.
Their faith availed nothing, the officer concluded drily. Divine Fires cared nothing for farmers, and south winds never blew during droughts. The army of the dead advanced and slaughtered refugees without hindrance until the Duke's men at arms organized resistance.
The Kielmark demanded particulars, even as Firelord, Stormwarden, and Dreamweaver joined him at the rail.
The weather had been still, and seasonally dry; Seitforest blazed past saving, even if every able man had not been busy defending the borderlands. Worried for the trapper who had sheltered him as a boy, Jaric interrupted. 'How much woodland has burned?'
The first commander shrugged, his dress tunic darkened with sweat. 'Who can say? Last messenger thought seven square leagues, but that was a guess, and hours old by now.'
The Kielmark snapped a question. 'How many men fight, and how many of the garrison remain in Corlin?'
'The Duke rode out with
all but three companies.' Stung by a frown of disapproval, the first commander qualified waspishly. 'Would you leave a town threatened by siege undefended? The Dark-dreamer's army advances far south of Gaire's Main by now. Corlin could be under attack by dawn.'
'Belay that!' The Kielmark called a sailhand to uncleat the barge's painter. Then, ignoring the honorific due Corlin's ranking officer, he gave orders. 'Take the sorcerers ashore and find horses for them. My men will follow by longboat and muster what troops remain. There had better be horses in the town somewhere, because I intend to march every available swordsman who can ride against Maelgrim without delay.'
Signalled by the boatswain, Taen started down the side battens, while a stiff-faced first commander retorted with hysterical disbelief. 'What! You give me two sorcerers and an enchantress, then propose to strip Corlin defenceless? We fight an army of corpses, man! Weapons can't kill what's already dead.'
The Kielmark folded massive forearms. His cold, angry gaze saw Jaric over the rail, then flicked back to the officer in the barge. 'You fight a human aberration and a demon circle of Gierj. Shut the gates for a siege, and I tell you, everyone within will die and join the Dark-dreamer's legions.'
A tense moment passed while Anskiere followed the others into the barge. The instant the Stormwarden set foot on the thwart, the King of Pirates barked an order. The sailhand who waited with the painter promptly cast off. Current swirled; caught standing as the barge wheeled downstream, the officer lost his balance. He flailed backward, tripped over the coxswain's ankles, and toppled into the laps of his oarsmen. Confusion resulted. By the time looms could be threaded into rowlocks to steady the ungainly craft, argument and decorum were irretrievably lost.
