TWOLAS - 06 - Peril's Gate

by Janny Wurts

  While the priest rinsed and dried his paraphernalia, the raw-boned headhunter showed his contempt. 'There's no clan presence there. The site is a ruin. Why would-the Spinner of Darkness be bound into such desolate territory?'

  Lysaer tapped the parchment where the line of the Severnir's dry gulch snaked south toward Daenfal Lake. 'Don't for a second misjudge this fiendish creature's resourcefulness. He knows of the ensorcelments laid into the stone watch towers that stand whole amid those smashed revetments. Who can guess what evil may spring from his wiles? What if he intends to lay claim to the site and rebuild the crown seat of his forebears?'

  'That's no pleasant thought,' Sulfin Evend allowed, his lean features peaked to hawkish interest. 'Those towers outlasted the assault of the rebellion. Legend holds that outsiders still need a blood prince's word to unkey the wards for admittance. The s'Ffalenn defenders besieged there in the past were said to starve to a man, their bones picked by ravens behind unbreached gates. If the Master of Shadow restores the old fortress, he could bid to revive the earth magic. We might see a canker set into our midst that could cost us dear to rout out.'

  The weasel-faced captain with the axe at his belt slapped his thigh to a rasp of steel mail. 'Then we stop him. Cut off his access before he can reach his objective.'

  Narms's mayor set flat palms on the trestle to brace up his spine in objection. 'It's deep winter.' he argued. 'No mounted courier can bear word to the east fast enough to make any difference. Nor can armed troops sustain a forced march that far overland without supply lines.'

  Lysaer s'Ilessid straightened up from the map, his golden hair hazed in low light like a nimbus. His regard felt like touching live embers bare-handed, or staring too long at the sun. 'When else would the minion of darkness seek foothold, but amid the cruel hardship of winter?'

  The mayor lacked words. He could not sustain that attentive regard, or such powerfully riveted sincerity.

  'Forgive me.' said Lysaer. Recalled to the fact he conversed with a man outside his accustomed circle, he gentled the blaze of his majesty. 'Of course, you would fret for your people of Narms.' His smile was magnetic. 'Put aside all such fear. Your town will be vigorously defended.' On his feet, incandescent with purpose, he was a male form stamped from foil and light, his charisma too bright to seem human. 'We've prepared well for this hour of trial. The faithful will march on the barrens and rise above inconvenience. Terrain and cold weather can be overcome. No foul tactic from Halwythwood's barbarians will defer the arm of the Light's righteous justice.'

  The mayor licked dry lips. 'I have no seasoned men-at-arms here to offer. Only those hardened few headhunters who lay over in south quarter lodgings until spring.'

  Yet even the field-tested courage of such men balked at crossing the haunted vales of Daon Ramon. The woodland barbarians themselves gave wide berth to the blessed ground at Caith-al-Caen. Nor did men tread the ancient Paravian road which passed through the ruined heart of Ithamon. At the moon's full phase, and under her darkened new face, the eerie, silver-point ghosts of the unicorns galloped in silenced passage. Their dead were still seen to pace under starlight. Ethereal spirits of departed Athlien danced in the change of the seasons, and along the avenue of hallowed standing stones stitched across Daon Ramon, the east wind sang as if speaking.

  'We'll face a more brutal reckoning than old haunts, should the s'Ffalenn bastard establish a presence at Ithamon.' Sulfin Evend shifted his raptor's glance to the lanky sunwheel diviner. 'How soon can you contact the priests of the Light stationed at Etarra and Morvain? Both cities keep garrisons prepared for fast summons. We can march eighteen companies of strike troops due east, and mount twice that number from Etarra. We'll still be hard-pressed. To cordon Ithamon and crush Red-beard's war bands, we need our best men called to arms damn well yesterday!'

  The diviner knotted his weight and chain between restless, bird-boned fingers. 'Word can be sent on the wings of a prayer ritual, or faster yet by the will of his divine Grace.'

  'I'll handle this personally,' snapped Lysaer s'Ilessid. His vehemence spat glints off gold braid and diamonds as he cut off a burly officer's objection. 'By the charge of truth I'm invested to uphold, I'll suffer no minion of evil to lay his fell shadow on the land.'

  Driven in dazzling, prideful magnificence, the prince clasped the Mayor of Narms by the shoulder. 'My chosen are dedicated, trained, and relentless in their commitment to uphold the Alliance of Light. Be assured of my pledge to secure your deliverance. Nothing will stand in the way of my charge to take down the Spinner of Darkness. From Narms, we'll require horses, fast couriers, and the skilled guidance of your veteran headhunters. If the Master of Shadow is to be brought down, every fighting man you have with experience in the barrens must lend his unstinting effort.'

  Few men could withstand the imperative fire of Lysaer's intimate company. Those candid blue eyes saw too far into the heart, lucid with a too powerfully seductive perception. Swept beyond memory of his promise to his wife, the Mayor of Narms bowed in unreserved acquiescence. 'Prince Exalted, is there nothing my household can offer in return to grant you ease or refreshment?'

  Lysaer s'Ilessid released his sure grip, warmed into touching gratitude. 'You can give me the use of a private room, and no interruptions for an hour.'

  Winter 5670

  High Priest

  Dedicated to his post in far-distant Tysan, Cerebeld, High Priest of the Light, was a disciplined early riser. Candles burned in his chamber before the glimmer of daybreak lit the roofs of Avenor the colors of pewter and poured lead. For the watch, shivering through the bitter misery of the night, the carmine glow from the priest's tower windows infallibly signaled the final hour before dawn. The taciturn pair of novices who attended his eminence had learned not to trouble his solitude. Cerebeld refused to have servants assist with his dress. He donned his layered white robes on arising, and arranged the seven roped chains of high office. Washed, face and hands, in the chill basin filled for his use the past evening, he followed his rigid habit of keeping devotions until after sunrise. None dared cross his threshold before his sharp clap summoned the hot bread he preferred for his breakfast.

  No aspirant who demanded an earlier audience would be admitted into his presence. The novices turned petitioners away regardless of rank, no matter their reason or urgency.

  Yet predawn on this day, six men-at-arms clad in royal blue tabards with the eight-point gold star of Tysan delivered an irresistible force of persuasion. The steel-strapped oak door to Cerebeld's chamber crashed back. The lead pair held the novices pinned to the wall, their mailed gauntlets and battle-trained strength overriding the howled chorus of protest. The ruffian in front still brandished the mace just used to mangle the door latch. With a flash of white teeth, the burly henchman who had rammed the locked panel refused any grace of apology. He offered his arm, inviting someone else poised in the stairwell across the High Priest's breached threshold.

  A suave power who matched brute force with calculation, Cerebeld arose from the sunwheel cushion that enthroned him in meditation. He knew who had come. With Prince Lysaer away on campaign in the east, only one voice dared command the elite royal guard from the garrison.

  'Her Grace, the Princess of Tysan,' announced the rogue who intruded, his sneer for the effete scent of sandalwood wafted from the priest's inner quarters.

  Cerebeld looked down his axe-blade nose, his eyes colorless as rimed ice. His dark hair was slicked as a seal's coat with ambergris. Even this early, he was ceremonially clothed, his sunwheel vestments of stainless white mirrored in the wax-polished floor. The gray bristles of his beard were trimmed to a point, accent to the wrought gold of yoked chains whose links were interlocked dragons. His beeswax complexion showed no flush of anger. Erect, unblinking, he displayed a sangfroid intimidation more effective than bluster or speech.

  On that cold, predawn morning, the Princess of Tysan swept into his presence, unfazed. She shed her cloud of ermine cloak into the hands of her arm
ed attendants. The candles on Cerebeld's locked aumbries lit her crisp dazzle of sapphire silk and wired jewelry. For this audience, the lady wore formal state trappings, the stamped brilliance of gemstones and shining gold circlet a blaze of royal authority. Unasked, she sat in the chamber's sole chair. Her skirts pooled around her demurely crossed ankles, damascened blue against her ringed hands, clasped in graceful deportment in her lap.

  Doe brown eyes matched Cerebeld's hauteur with a mutual bristle of antagonism. 'I'm here on account of the prince, my blood son.'

  The High Priest's plum lips thinned with distaste. 'The boy's doings are none of my affair, your Grace, unless he strays into liaison with unwholesome powers of darkness.'

  Ellaine firmed her chin. Her spring-rose beauty had lost its fresh dew. The small, timeworn lines tooled into her complexion by year upon year of resignation today underscored her striking determination. 'The heir apparent of this kingdom has left for Karfael with the guard. I find your seal of approval gave him leave. He's a fifteen-year-old boy. In the company of veteran field troops, he goes armed with only a ceremonial blade, and a head full of dreams that don't match his strength, or his inept grasp of tournament swordplay. If that's not a meddling interest in his welfare, I'll see you clapped in irons for deceit.'

  Cerebeld linked taloned hands at his waist. 'Princess, your accusation is pure hearsay.'

  'The palace steward's a weasel at evasion, but he draws clear distinction against lying.' Ellaine pinned the High Priest without quarter, her retiring nature ignited to flash-point resolve. 'Gace insists that your writ gave the prince due permission to accompany the troops out on road watch.'

  A presence of razor-cut, glittering white against the night-darkened panes of the casements, the High Priest of the Light checked his sigh of exasperation. 'The boy is this realm's heir apparent, if not yet a man. He can't learn to rule in Avenor sequestered behind the skirts of your chattering women.' The sharp flick of a glance cut and measured the uncowed, closed hands and tense flush of the lady seated before him. The tragic fact that the princess's late predecessor had died of a suicidal leap from the battlements above had plainly not served to intimidate. Outraged motherhood was not going to back down. 'No,' Cerebeld stated in quelling authority. 'Stay your hand-wringing, you're quite wrong. The young prince's permission arose from a higher authority than mine.'

  'What, the Word of the Light?' Ellaine's contempt raked him. 'For your posturing sham of serving divinity, you've dared send my son on a winter campaign?'

  'A routine patrol,' High Priest Cerebeld corrected. Attacks never ruffled him. He unclasped his jeweled fingers, his serenity built on the granite of utter conviction. 'Have you ever known me to speak false concerning your husband's divine will? My task while I wear the grace of this mantle is to hear and act for the Light. I say again, permission was served through the mouth of my office, not by my personal preference. Your son was sent to Karfael to mature his experience. He remains in the field until his royal father sees fit to send word and recall him.'

  Ellaine clamped back a furious retort, too seasoned to battle the High Priest's righteous duty head-on. The brute rigors of politics had tested his primacy. Time and again, Lysaer s'Ilessid had affirmed the man's power to deliver his royal state edicts. Even Avenor's most avaricious trade ministers bowed to Cerebeld's decrees concerning the will of the Divine Prince.

  Taut-faced, white-knuckled, Ellaine refused setback. 'If the heir apparent rides for Karfael, then I go as well. My train and escort will include his Grace's tutors. Two pages from Avenor's prominent families will serve the young prince as companions. Let my royal husband understand this: I will not have our son in the forests of Westwood haring after the scalps of barbarians!'

  'You will not leave for Karfael, or anywhere else.' Cerebeld's velvet-clothed certainty shot dangerous currents through the spice-burdened air of the room. The edged play of the light on his sunwheel emblems gained sharpened menace as he served his ultimatum. 'The last princess before you left this city with war pending. She fell victim to the Spinner of Darkness. The Blessed Prince will not see her tragedy repeated. Dear lady, by my oath of service to the Light, you will not pass the gates of Avenor.'

  Spark to struck tinder, Ellaine surged to her feet. 'Spinner of Darkness? What is he, but the name of an absent threat? I have never met him, never seen him! Nor have I stood witness to one concrete act that was his, and not some machination used to further the interests of politics. What is Arithon s'Ffalenn but convenience and hearsay that feeds the excuse for trade factions to raise arms and curb the predations of barbarians!'

  'But the Master of Shadow is no longer in hiding,' Cerebeld explained after the gravid, barbed pause he used to lend weight to his arguments. 'The enemy is back in Rathain at this moment, and your husband is across Instrell Bay, raising town garrisons to challenge him.'

  The High Priest waved aside Ellaine's rebuttal, that deep winter would hamper the muster. 'These are dangerous times, princess. The straits that could bring terror and woe to the innocent are just as you say: that the ports and the passes are closed in the north. No speedy warning can call cities to take arms. The years the s'Ffalenn sorcerer has lurked in obscurity have blunted the memories of his atrocities.'

  Which fact was a truth without contest: beyond a bare handful, the aged veterans of Vastmark had retired from the ranks of field service.

  Straight as a doll in her jeweled state garments, her bravado reduced to cosmetic paint over paraffin, Ellaine never swerved from her purpose. 'If as you say Rathain's bastard prince has returned, and the eastlands face a new war, I insist, my son should be here and not set at risk with fighting men posted to Karfael.'

  For the first time in her presence, Cerebeld broke his glacial mask of objectivity. 'My lady, let me warn you.' His advancing step was a pantherish stalk, glancing candlelight struck off his silk-and-gold robes like the shimmer of sun-bathed quartz. 'Against the grand conflict of Light against Dark, nothing and no one shall come in between the Exalted Prince and his divine destiny. He is the world's ray of hope. Before his glory, and the cause that he stands for, you and your son are expendable.' A glance toward the north bank of casements lent his point stabbing edge. 'Your predecessor, the past Princess Talith, pushed that truth too far and bought tragedy. Try the same thing at your peril.'

  The scrape of a hobnailed boot sole recalled the royal guards still standing in dutiful attendance. Their ranking officer cleared his throat, then ventured, 'My lady, your Grace, pay heed to the High Priest. No man in the guard can escort you to Karfael. Not now.' His ranks had not known the Divine Prince had gone to stand in defense against Shadow. Ruddy features averted in embarrassed apology, the officer added, 'You may not know the unhappy history. But when Princess Talith was abducted by the enemy, the captain of the royal honor guard lost his life in reparation. We are charged with the greater burden of your safety, and our loyal oath to your husband sets us in conflict. To support your desire to escort your son could land us with charges of treason.'

  Ellaine held her fixed glare of hostility upon the impervious High Priest. 'I understand well enough that your duty has no heart, and no shred of human compassion. If my son goes to Karfael for the sake of the Light, and harm comes to him, on my word, I will hold both you and my husband responsible.' A cascading rustle of azure silk saw the Princess of Avenor to her feet. She paid no respects. Spun face about, she swept out with an urgency that suggested suppressed tears, but that actually curbed her rebellious need to cast off westland manners and spit on the High Priest's spotless carpet.

  Cerebeld watched his royal guest leave, dispassionate as the sated snake permitting choice prey to go free. While the jingling tread of the attendant men-at-arms receded down the stairwell, he bade the rattled novices on the landing to shut the door to his chamber. Restored to solitude, the Grand High Priest of the Light murmured a purifying prayer, then resumed his morning devotions.

  He thumbed open a receptacle in his wrought-dragon
chain, removed the filigreed key, then turned the lock on his aumbry. 'Praise be the Light,' he murmured as he knelt. His questing touch tripped the recessed latch concealed amid the embossed gold panel. A cavity had been cunningly set into the joinery behind the whale-ivory facing glued to the cupboard door. Inside, shallow niches in a grid were labeled with the names of each city in Rathain. Most remained empty in this hour of need. But the ones for Etarra, Morvain, and Jaelot sheltered small bundles bagged in silk. Cerebeld plucked these out, his handling as reverent as though their contents were living, and irreplaceably fragile.

  He transferred the cache to his personal altar, where beeswax candles, sweetened with sandalwood, burned. Four alabaster bowls held his offerings of clear water, cut herbs, and rarefied oil, and the residue of the blood shed in ceremony to reaffirm the sacrificial pledge of his person to the purpose of divine will and Light. Each day, cast prostrate across the sunwheel cushion as he begged intercession and guidance, he renewed his eternal vow.

  Fervently trembling, he unwrapped the sacred bundles and withdrew their three figurines of cast wax. Each held a carved likeness, the hair real, snipped from the heads of the persons they represented. Eyes closed in prayer, Cerebeld licked his thumb. He dampened the wax face of each doll with a touch, then stilled, building the receptive inner quiet through which he would channel the Word of the Light. Minutes passed, sealed in the airborne scents of rare oils and the fragrant musk of hot candles. Predawn stillness suspended him, textureless as hung felt, until his mind unfolded into an effortless state of suspension.

  Cerebeld waited, patient as the blank pool stilled to mirror the infinite.

  Time brought his reward. The first tug of contact was drawn in by the ritual unreeled through the focal point of the wax dolls. Cerebeld hooked the presence of the nearest man first, the young priest who served truth in Morvain. The man slept yet, entangled in dreams, while the sea winds buffeted his casements. Awareness of the Etarran priest reached through next, tinged with the scent of patchouli he used to freshen his linen. That one was wakeful, his thought stream a sibilant murmur of prayer. The third priest, most recently dispatched to Jaelot, remained stalled in Darkling, caught in midjourney when early storms closed the passes. Asleep in a tangle of fusty wool blankets, his need to stretch travel funds kept him stranded in the smoky, dimmed chamber of a second-rate inn built for drovers.