by Janny Wurts
‘The lad will awaken,’ rasped the crone, the glint in her single eye sullen.
‘Pass the Wheel, more likely,’ the old man corrected. The improved illumination fully revealed him, even to the peculiar, detailed threadwork that patterned his coat of drab motley. The boots he wore underneath the long hem were a horseman’s, scuffed with hard wear and marred at the toes with small holes that looked punched by cinders. For some reason beyond logic, that oddity lent his presence a fierce credibility.
The royal guardsmen deferred to his onslaught of aimed purpose. The Lord Examiner’s bellowed query passed unheeded as the old man burst into the inner circle, quashed the sullen, smoking coal in the brazier with a bare-handed touch, then faced the herb witch head-on.
‘My lords, beware!’ snapped the Alliance Lord Commander, spurred to an explosive rush forward. ‘This newcomer wields true magecraft.’
The old man in his motley turned not a hair, despite the scrambling retreat of crown officers, then the Lord Examiner’s outraged order to stand firm, and the subsequent cry for the royal guards to form a defensive cordon.
‘The stick,’ the stranger demanded. Each word fell distinct through the wail of bared steel. As though disconnected from the surrounding consternation, his attention remained fixed on the woman as he extended his hand. ‘I’ll dispose of it safely.’
‘This is a rank outrage!’ Avenor’s Lord Examiner elbowed past the dumbstruck secretary and clerks, his slab jowls jerked to a tic. ‘Who are you?’
The old man smiled, the turn of his lips beneath beard and hood disarming as new butter. ‘Someone you’d dearly enjoy burning, no doubt.’ Still focused on the hag, he asked, ‘Woman, what do you fear?’
‘No fear!’ shrilled the crone. ‘Not of you! None for him.’ Her distraught gesture encompassed the diamond-still presence of the state official who had thus far not deigned to speak. The moment of impasse gained force and momentum, while the crone clutched the stick, and a cold like spun current ran off its incised runes and shaved the air brittle with danger. The court magistrates stopped their clamor; the guards froze to a man. Lord Examiner Vorrice turned his nose sharply, a hound on a scent, then snarled at the Lord Commander at Arms, whose hard restraint trapped his wrist.
‘What do you fear?’ the old man repeated. His entreaty held a note of compassion that belled through explosive stillness.
The woman’s gaze fell. ‘I fear to burn. You know this.’ The stiff, clawlike hand clasped to the artifact spasmed to trembling frailty. Whatever malevolent force the stick channeled seemed poised, unstable as the suspended cling of a waterdrop.
The old man surveyed her desperate stance and discerned deeper meanings behind her simple admission. ‘You’re cold. The winter is cruel where folk are made fearful of those who sell the old remedies. You may take my word for your safety and the promise of shelter.’ He shed his rag coat in one fluid motion. ‘Go to freedom in Havish in exchange for leaving that stick.’
‘You have no right to release a crown convict!’ pealed the Crown Examiner in flushed rage.
‘But I have, in this case.’ Underneath the drab motley, in startling transformation, the old man wore wine red robes with edged borders of black interlace that looked newly made from the tailor’s.
‘Your bond, I can trust,’ the crone relented. Her short laugh held an unlooked-for delight as she yielded and curtsied, and let him accept the stick from her unsteady grasp.
The pending sense of danger built and trembled on the air. Though the candles burned straight in the draftless atmosphere, the stone floor seemed to rock without movement.
With no fanfare, no warning, the old man ran his gnarled palm hard down the length of the wood. The staff spoke, a chilling vibration of sound like the wail of a terrified child. In shattering contrast, the light that bloomed under his sure touch was wrought out of limpid clarity. A wash of bound energies whined past and dispersed. The candles streamed then, and the scentless backwash ruffled the feathers and damp hats of the magistrates, and shot queer, starred pulses off the steel of the guards’ helms and weaponry. Nor was the staff scatheless. The carved runes dissolved in a spatter of red sparks, licking scintillant fire through the odd, silent courtier’s pale ermines and exquisite linked diamond studs.
What remained in the old man’s hand was an oak stick, polished and plain, now innocuous as a countryman’s walking cane.
‘Thank you, grandmother.’ The elder returned the stick to the crone with unstudied, gallant courtesy.
At his back, the Examiner’s outrage inflamed the bunched mass of courtiers.
‘You’ve no right to grant a reprieve to crown prisoners!’ Lord Vorrice burst out. To Avenor’s taciturn Lord Commander at Arms, he ordered, ‘Restrain him, at once.’
The guards moved. The metallic notes struck off their mail and edged weapons splashed echoes the full length of the warehouse.
The old man glanced up, droll. ‘Are you foolish?’ He engaged the masked gaze of Lord Commander Sulfin Evend, even as the royal guards closed and surrounded him.
Amid the official party, the sleek crown councilman seemed the only other man to appreciate the irony of the challenge.
Nor was Sulfin Evend either hot-blooded or rash, to rise to the old man’s baiting. His calm called a halt on the guardsmen’s aggression, and his speech stopped them cold between strides. ‘Sethvir of Althain,’ he addressed, his formality reamed through by corrosive sarcasm. ‘Why have we the pleasure?’
The named title electrified the gathering to fear. A hairsbreadth from bloodshed, guardsmen gripped their weapons, and the magistrates shrank, feathered hats and jeweled finery shuddering to the beat of sped pulse.
The person revealed as a Fellowship Sorcerer stepped away from the crone, his fingers clasped behind his back like a child caught out stealing sweetmeats. ‘Oh, shall we bandy words, now, instead of engaging with weaponry?’ He winked at Sulfin Evend. ‘For one thing, there will be young wives in Etarra who want living husbands brought safely home to their hearthstones.’
‘The crown would be grateful,’ Sulfin Evend agreed, as cutting as any unsheathed steel in this surprise ambush of courtesies. ‘Though your charitable thought is of questionable standing since your colleague was the one who cursed these men to enchanted sleep in the first place.’
Sethvir raised mild eyebrows, offended. ‘Asandir did no such thing. He merely allowed Caithwood’s live trees to respond to an unfair endangerment. Or did you not make your eloquent case in Lysaer’s state council to sue for a decree of burning and destruction?’
‘This is rubbish!’ broke in Vorrice. ‘A tree can bind three whole companies of fighting men into a lethal coma? What an asinine flight of fantasy!’
‘Actually, no. They prefer not to kill.’ Sethvir sidled another half step, disarmingly patient. ‘Nor will they, if everyone stays reasonable.’ While the crone snatched her chance to melt into the shadows, he coughed politely, craned his neck, then raised his hand to fend off the converging bristle of pole arms. ‘How uncivilized we are,’ he chided. ‘After taking the trouble to travel in winter, I’d rather not step out beforetime.’
Under Sulfin Evend’s unflinching regard, the guards stiffened their weapons and held their ground.
Sethvir shrugged. ‘Have things your way.’ He dismissed the Lord Commander as he might have abandoned an instant’s idle survey of a fly. ‘You overdressed blunderers make a splendid display, intimidating all the wrong people.’ All devilment, he beckoned to the cowering royal secretary. ‘Come forward, man. Stop shaking as well. Nobody’s going to skewer someone’s liver on a pike. Your wooden-faced high councilmen are merely going to set royal seal to an edict that pledges the heartwood of the forests Lysaer’s grant of protection, for all time.’
‘You won’t get the Prince’s signature,’ the Lord Commander interjected in venomous loyalty. ‘I’ll kill if you try to use these poor victims’ lives for extortion.’
Sethvir actually smiled. ‘Impasse
. I can leave.’ As Sulfin Evend shifted forward to engage the guard, he added, ‘Don’t make your men party to an embarrassing mistake. No mere unsheathed steel can gainsay me.’
‘I will find your weakness. Take that as my warning.’ The Lord Commander’s burning gaze took weight and measure of Sethvir’s timeworn features before he signaled his men to lower their weapons and stand down. ‘Go from this place. Make your way back to your tower in Atainia empty-handed. We can afford to lose every man who lies here in the cause of true service to the Light.’
Again Sethvir raised tangled eyebrows. This time his inquiry focused on the smooth countenance of the one crown councilman, whose silence was now striking, and whose masked intelligence bespoke deeper motives behind unobtrusive restraint.
‘Every living man’s sword counts in this war against shadow,’ that glittering personage contradicted. ‘Nor will your evil works claim even one who lies stricken for the sake of another’s stiff pride. You may dictate your terms,’ he said to the Sorcerer. ‘Rest assured, I hold the authority to sign documents in the absence of his Grace, the Blessed Prince.’ Wholly contained, his hair combed silk under the uncertain flutter of candlelight, he finished in unruffled majesty. ‘Make no mistake. This is not capitulation. We are large enough in the strength of our faith to meet your demands and recover.’
‘You can’t yield,’ Lord Examiner Vorrice interrupted, his breath thickened to fury. ‘Prince Lysaer would never bow to a threat, nor give this enemy any footing for demand.’
‘Peace, Vorrice,’ murmured the high councilman, unperturbed, his collar of jewels like pinned points of ice hung on a nerveless wax statue. ‘There is no demand our Alliance cannot grow to overcome, given time.’ To Sethvir, he assured, ‘My writ will be honored. The secretary and the clerks can draw up a document in state language, and the ring on my hand will stand as the seal for Prince Lysaer’s personal bond.’
‘A parchment inscribed with your signature will do,’ Sethvir said, neither set back nor moved by that claim to a regent’s high sovereignty. ‘True intent of the heart can be read from such things, and a tree has small use for wax-impressed symbols and words penned in noble formality.’
‘This is pure outrage!’ Crown Examiner Vorrice ground out, hissing loud, whispered protests, even as his rival councilman snapped ringed fingers to a secretary, who responded out of trained habit. ‘No Sorcerer should be cozened! Fire and sword would make a fit ending––’
‘But not at the cost of six hundred lives,’ that glacial personage cut in. His eyes were steel filings snap-frozen in ice, and his voice chilling as he spoke in ultimatum to Sethvir. ‘Your hour will come, if not in my lifetime, then in that of my appointed successors. Light will stand firm against sorcery and darkness without making martyrs over principle.’
While the secretary shuffled parchment, then offered the pen for the endorsement, he signed with no trace of regret. His fulsome, flowery cursive spelled out name and title, Cerebeld, First High Priest to the Prince of the Light, Alliance precinct of Avenor.
In flawless, cast calm, he stepped forward. His own hand relinquished the document to Sethvir. ‘If the forest clan families will ally with the Shadow Master, if they continue to molest honest trade through bloodshed and raiding, rest assured, the Divine Prince and right action will annihilate them. Faith and sheer numbers must tell in the end. Lord Harradene of Etarra will no doubt be pleased to rededicate his city garrison for the purpose.’
Sethvir rolled the new edict into a scroll, his delight rebounded to an unwonted solemnity. ‘Dear man, you might hold an office granted by the hand of usurped mortal power. That gives no license to make choices Ath Creator would spurn for the sake of respect. Always ask before you make foolish promises concerning another man’s free will.’
The full truth, Prince Lysaer’s high priest would discover in due time: that a man who had once dreamed the peace of the trees was unlikely to return to a soldier’s life of trained violence. Of the crack Etarran troops imported to clear Caithwood of its meddlesome enclave of barbarians, not a one would arise in fit state to resume the way of the sword. They would garden, or farm, or live disaffected; some few would find their way back to waking contentment in the disciplines of Ath’s Brotherhood.
After knowing the tranquil awareness of the trees, Lysaer s’Ilessid’s war-bent call to religion would move them to open abhorrence.
Sethvir turned his back on Avenor’s delegation. In complete disregard of the magistrates’ dismay, the Lord Commander’s smoldering fanaticism, and the outrage of Lord Vorrice and the guards, he smiled to the master healer, who waited unforgotten on the sidelines. ‘See to your charges,’ he instructed, even as the first ripple of movement stirred through the stricken men on the cots. ‘They are released now, and waking, and will need human comfort as they find their way back to awareness.’
Someone groaned in the dimness outside the lit circle of candles. Feathers twitched, and fine fabric sighed to the sharp shift in tension as the magistrates craned heads to observe. During that one unguarded moment, the Fellowship Sorcerer slipped away. No one saw his departure. That single, uncanny second of suspension should not have allowed him the time he required to step out.
And yet he was gone. The outer door to the warehouse gaped open. Chill winds bored in, admitting a vindictive blast of snowflakes until a testy official barked for the page boys to shoulder the huge panel closed. Through the yammering complaint of Lord Vorrice’s indignation, Commander Sulfin Evend made incisive, dry comment that the old herb witch in her coat of rag motley had apparently disappeared also.
‘Sorcery! Evil practice engaged in our very presence!’ Vorrice gasped, his face red, and his indignant, ham fists clenched in his sunwheel cloak. He demanded an immediate hue and cry, until High Priest Cerebeld touched him silent.
‘Patience,’ said the man who was the Voice of the Light in Avenor. ‘Evil will not be banished in a day. Nor will our trial against darkness be won through pursuing one Sorcerer prematurely.’ His gaze of notched ice raked over his disgruntled officials, then the royal guardsmen, left empty-handed and shamed. ‘No one failed here.’ His fervor rang, end to end, through the warehouse, fired with faith and invincible conviction. ‘I charge you all, let the timing be Prince Lysaer’s. Tysan needs an heir to ensure the succession. Once the throne is secured, hear my promise. Our Alliance campaign will carry the Light forward. By the grace of divine calling, the minion of righteousness will see an end to sorcery and oppression. On that blessed hour, every city on the continent will rise under the sunwheel standard!’
By the advent of dusk, Avenor still seethed with the mounted patrols rousted out by the Alliance Lord Examiner. Men-at-arms had spent a long afternoon displacing indignant families. Their search swept street by street, and ranged down every midden-strewn back alleyway, seeking a renegade Sorcerer and an escaped convict named as an herb witch.
Evening closed in, gray under the swirling, thin snowfall that had dusted the city through the day. The west keep watch blew the horn that sounded the closing of the gates; the lamplighter made rounds with his torch. Neither fugitive was found, despite a posted crown reward, and the pointed fact the Fellowship Sorcerer was said to be wearing a conspicuous maroon velvet robe. As darkness deepened, and the keening wind blasted flaying gusts down the streets from the sea quarter, the guardsmen retrod old ground like balked hounds. They endured shrill abuse from shopkeepers and matrons, and dodged the rime thrown off the wheels of drays bearing cord wood, and live chickens caged in tied baskets of withies.
Bedraggled and wet, a mounted patrol slogged across Avenor’s central plaza, startling a flock of brown-and-white sparrows. The birds’ circling, short flight set them back down. They pecked at the crumbs thrown by a beggar who sat, huddled against the brick buttresses of the council hall, sharing his crust of stale bread.
‘Damnfool waste of time,’ the patrol sergeant grumbled, spurs gouged to his equally disaffected gelding. ‘Sorcerer’s long gone
, you ask me. Ought to be Lord Vorrice himself out here, freezing his tail in the saddle for rabid love of divine principles.’
‘Dharkaron’s black bollocks, man!’ snapped a companion, brushing off snow that melted against his soaked thighs. ‘You’d rather be home warming your ears under your old lady’s wasp tongue?’
‘I’d rather be settled with a hot meal and beer at the Goose,’ another man grumbled. ‘Fiends plaguing wind’s like to give a man frostbite where the goodwife won’t ever need her sick headaches for excuses.’
The deadened clop of hooves passed on by, then faded to the jingle of bit rings and mail. No man on patrol paused over the oddity, that any natural wild bird should have flown to roost before sundown. Nor had a one of them challenged the beggar for loitering. In hindsight, had they shown a half second’s thought, even their horses had behaved as though the fellow had been part of the stone-and-brick cranny where he sheltered.
Crouched on his hams in the silting snowfall, the beggar himself seemed strangely contented, his gnarled hands mittened in a pair of cast off stockings with holes poked through for his thumbs. He had no cloak. Only a torn and moth-eaten blanket which should have done little to cut the wind. The incessant gusts skirled and spun, and ruffled the feathers of the birds, who crowded and pecked to snatch handouts.
A woman with a basket of fish passed homeward from the dockside market. Next came a rib-skinny street cur and a thin child in rags. The dog and the boy received the divided last portion of the bread crust. The beggar seemed not to care that his generosity had disposed of his remaining bit of supper. He sat with his arms wrapped around tucked-up knees, and resumed conversation with the wind devil that coiled into slow eddies before his crossed ankles.
‘Your suspicion is true, Luhaine,’ he mused, while the diamond fall of snowflakes caught light from the streetlamp and spun in lazy spirals that strangely seemed not to disturb the cluster of still hopeful sparrows. ‘The s’Ilessid scion’s already drawn a born talent into his cause. His high priest, Cerebeld, is no sham, but a natural telepath who has tapped into gifted clairaudience.’
