by Janny Wurts
Luhaine absorbed the ripples of wider quandary like a thunderclap. Long years in the past, at the hour of the Mistwraith’s first incursion, Traithe had sealed South Gate to close off its point of entry at hideous personal cost. Now, through the conjury sent to recall Kharadmon, the main body of the mists once thwarted from the crossing were offered another means to trace Athera. Until every tree, every sapling and seed that had lent its vibration to the homing spell had lived out its allotted span of days, a tenuous tie would remain, a ghost imprint of the mighty ward dispatched across the void to recontact those sundered worlds. The threat remained in force, that those truncated spirits once a part of Deshthiere’s autonomy might seek to rejoin their fellows still precariously sealed alive in Rockfell Pit.
‘Dharkaron’s black vengeance!’ Luhaine burst out, a shattering departure for a spirit well-known to condemn his colleagues’ oaths as a mannerless lack of imagination. The fear behind his outburst stayed unspoken, that the Fellowship’s covenant with the Paravian races might be thrown irredeemably into jeopardy.
‘Quite,’ Sethvir said in sour summary. Any outside chance of renewed conflict with the Mistwraith meant the Fellowship might need their princes’ irreplaceable talents with light and shadow once again. The scope of fresh setback staggered thought. For as long as the lives of the royal half brothers lay entangled into enmity by the curse, its ever-tightening spiral would drive them toward a final annihilating conflict. The risks would but increase over time.
The Warden of Althain bent a furrowed scowl toward his sprawl of runes and seals. ‘Let us pray that Kharadmon has brought us back answers and a Name for this terror from the gate worlds.’
Luhaine drifted in from a point poised in air beyond the window. ‘Your hope is premature.’ Ever the pessimist, he keyed a seal into power, and, with a flaring crack, a blue net of light enmeshed the tower’s high battlement. ‘First, we have to rescue the rash idiot from his latest tangle with calamity.’
A bone-chilling gust tinged with ozone flayed a sudden gap through the clouds. The wards above Althain flared purple and sealed in a white effusion of sparks. Sethvir laid down his chalk, bemused to dismay, while disturbed breezes settled, riming the windowsill next to his elbow with diamond crystals of ice.
‘Don’t act so virtuous, Luhaine,’ retorted the Fellowship spirit just returned. A peppery insouciance clipped his speech. ‘I recall the days when you did little but sit about eating muffins and leaving smears of butter on the books. To hear you pontificate now, one can’t help but feel sorry. Such windy bouts of language make a sorrowful substitute for the binges you can’t manage as a ghost.’
While Luhaine was left at flustered odds for rejoinder, Sethvir twisted in his seat to face the turbid patch of air inside his library. A pixie’s bright smile flexed his lips. ‘Welcome home to Althain Tower, Kharadmon.’
A riffle like a snort crossed the chamber. ‘I daresay you won’t think so when you see what’s tagged a ride on my coattails.’ The Sorcerer just arrived resumed in flippant phrasing at odds with his predicament. ‘I hate to be the bore to wreck the party, but don’t be startled if the earth wards you’ve set fail to stand up under trial.’
Urgency pressed him too closely to share the premise behind his bleak forecast. In a fiery flourish of seals, Kharadmon configured an unfamiliar chain of runes and safeguards. These meshed into the primary protections already laid over the tower to receive the hate-driven entities he had battled and failed to outrun.
‘As a last resort, the wraiths dislike the stink of sulphur,’ he finished off in crisp haste.
Ever intolerant of his colleague’s provocations, Luhaine retuned the balance of a sigil the sudden change had tipped awry. ‘I suggest we don’t allow the wretched creatures any liberty to need tactics of such flimsy desperation.’
‘Luhaine! From you, an enchanting understatement!’ Kharadmon’s quick turn around the chamber masked a trepidation like vibrations struck off tempered steel. For should the wraiths which trailed him across the deeps of space escape Fellowship confinement here at Althain, they would gain access to all of Athera. Set loose, their potential for havoc could unleash horrors beyond all imagining.
After all, they were an unfettered aspect drawn here from the original body of the Mistwraith, an entity created from a misguided meddling with the Law of the Major Balance. Its works had driven the Paravians to vanish in despair; in defeat, its dire vengeance had twisted the lives of two princes.
While Luhaine’s ghost churned through brown thoughts over Kharadmon’s tasteless humour, the wards crisscrossing the darkened sky outside flared active with a scream of raw light. Sethvir shouted a binding cantrip, then gave way to alarm as Kharadmon’s hunch was borne through. A burst hurtled down like a meteor storm, in angry red arcs curdling holes through every ward and guard he and Luhaine had shaped from roused earthforce.
‘Ath’s infinite pity!’ Althain’s Warden cried, his fingers wrung through his beard.
‘No,’ Kharadmon interjected, his insouciance torn away by exhaustion that verged on impairment. ‘These wraiths won’t fall on the defenceless countryside. Not yet. They’ll besiege us here first. Incentive will draw them. They desire to steal knowledge from our Fellowship. We’ll be under attack, and if any one of us falls as a victim, there will be no limit to our sorrow.’ His warning fell into a dread stillness, since he alone could gauge the threat now descending upon Althain Tower.
‘Don’t try to close with them. Don’t let them grapple,’ he added in hurried, last caution. ‘Their bent is possession. They can slip traps through time. The best chance we have is to keep out of reach, use this tower’s primary defences for containment, then try to snare the creatures in ring wards.’
The mirror-loop spells to entrap a hostile consciousness back into itself were a simple enough undertaking, provided a mage knew the aura pattern of the spirit appointed for restraint. To Luhaine’s high-browed flick of inquiry, Kharadmon showed tart disgust. Td hardly have needed to flee the fell creatures if I’d held command of their Names.’
And then the wraiths were upon them in a swirling, unseen tide of spite. They poured through the casements to winnow the unshielded spark in the brazier, and cause Sethvir’s scattered tomes to clap shut like trap jaws on bent pages and loose sheaves of quill pens.
Through the last battle to confine Desh-thiere, Paravian defence wards alone had been impervious to the wraiths’ aberrant nature. Even as Asandir had once done in desperation atop another beleaguered tower nine years past, Luhaine fired a charge through a spell net held ready. A power more ancient than any sorcerer’s tenancy surged in response to his need. A deep-throated rumble shook the old stonework as the wards over Althain slammed fast.
The pack of free wraiths bent in hate against the Fellowship were now sealed inside Sethvir’s library.
If Kharadmon had resisted their malevolence alone through an exhaustive toll of years, he was now left too worn from his trials to offer much fight to help stay them. Bare hope must suffice that the Paravian safeguards laid within the tower’s walls would prove as potent against these invaders as the wards once reconfigured against Desh-thiere.
Yet in this hour of trial, the attacking entities inhabited no body spun from mist. These free wraiths held no fleshly tie to life, nor were they subject to any physical law. They could not be lured through illusions framed to malign or confuse the senses. Not being fogbound, no gifted command of light and shadow would suffice to turn them at bay. Lent the knife-edged awareness that no power in the land might contain these fell creatures should they slip Althain’s wards and escape, three Sorcerers stewed inside with them had no option at all but to try and evade their deadly grasp. They must seek to subdue and enchain them without falling prey to possession.
The peril was extreme and the risk beyond thought, for should they fail to contain this threat here and now, the very depths of their knowledge and craft would be turned against the land their Fellowship was sworn and charg
ed to guard.
To surface appearance, there seemed no present enemy to fight. Limned in sheeting flares thrown off by the disrupted fields in the tower wards, the metal clasps of books bit corners of reflection through the gloom. The third lane spark in the brazier recovered its steady blue to cast harsh illumination over the massive black table with its scrawled chalk ciphers and its empty chairs left arrayed at jutted angles. As unkempt as the caches upon his fusty aumbries, Sethvir stood poised, his hair and beard raked up into tufts and his fingers interlaced beneath the threadbare shine of his cuffs. His gaze sieved the air to pick out sign of the hostile motes of consciousness which lurked in the crannies and the shelves.
Unlike his spirit-formed colleagues, he was hampered, his perception tied to mortal senses. The earth link that enabled him to track simultaneous world events out of half trance was no help in a direct encounter. Its use slowed his reflexes. Unlike his discorporate colleagues, he could not see behind to guard his back. To the refined sensitivity of his mage-sight, the wraiths would show as spirit light, brighter if they moved or tried to exert their influence over anything alive. Were they stilled or stalking, poised beyond his peripheral vision, he must rely on hearing, for their auras would be traceless through the air. Yet eyes had to blink; fleshly senses fell prey to fatigue.
And the danger was present and closing.
‘Beware,’ warned Luhaine. ‘I count nine hostile vortices.’
Engrossed in the throes of tuned awareness, Sethvir made them out with more difficulty. Twined amid the jumble of his possessions, the faint, coiling currents of the wraiths seemed sketched against the dimness like strayed dust motes, stroked to clinging eddies by weak static. Ephemeral as they seemed, translucent as the steam wisps off his tea mugs, he was not fooled. The broadened span of his perception could detect their unrest, hazed in vibrations of hatred. These entities cast their essence in the forms of leering faces, yawling mouths, in glass-clear, skeletal fingers that plucked and clawed and pricked like jabbing needles in quest of the barest chink in his defences.
‘Sethvir, don’t let them flank you.’ Thin drawn under stress as the wraiths themselves, Luhaine stood guard by the library door, his stance set opposite Kharadmon’s. For with frightful intent in those first, passing minutes, the victim the wraiths had chosen was the Warden of Althain himself.
Of them all, Sethvir alone owned the talent for splitting his mind into multiple awareness. He was Althain’s Warden, the earth’s tried link, and through him flowed all events to influence the fate of Athera. Were the wraiths to possess him, they could access at will any aspect they chose within the world. They would grasp the last particular concerning the ward-bound fragments of the Mistwraith held captive in Rockfell Pit, even the means to key their freedom.
Sethvir pushed back the shabby maroon velvet of his cuffs. He hooked his stub of chalk from the table rim, then spoke a word in sharp, staccato syllables that snagged the wild force of the elements. The clear air before him turned brittle and hard, sheer as a pane of sheet ice. Onto that enspelled, glassine surface, he scribed a fresh line of ciphers. Each rune as written flared into lines of fire. While the wraiths roiled back, gnashing silent teeth and flailing clawed fists, and fleering fanged snarls at the punitive pinch of bristled energy, the Warden of Althain murmured a litany of unbinding.
Spell-cast air reclaimed its natural state with a cry like rending crystal. The construct traced out in chalk lines stayed adrift, fanned and winnowed on the draughts as burning oil might ride on a water current. To reach Sethvir, the hostile entities must cross through them, or else try to permeate the spell-tempered stone that formed the wall at his back.
One moment the wraiths coiled in an agitated swirl of frustration. Then they vanished.
Sethvir shouted. Behind his ward of spelled air, he shrank a step, cornered by the table, while around him, a roiled press like heat waves off brick, the spirit forms attacked.
‘They’ve breached his defences across time!’ cried Luhaine.
But Kharadmon was forewarned. His counterstrike sheeted around Sethvir’s body. The wraiths frothed in thrashing retreat. Above their heaving moil, a rune blazed, then dissolved to spread a stench like rotten eggs over the space they inhabited.
‘Sulphur,’ said Kharadmon. ‘It’s bought us a handful of seconds.’
‘I shouldn’t act smug,’ Luhaine huffed. ‘Such stopgap measures build no measure of permanence, but only waste what remains of your strength.’ Self-righteously immersed, he undertook to build a vessel of confinement in the prior style used against Desh-thiere.
‘What use to build jars?’ Kharadmon stabbed back in rejoinder. ‘We can scarcely sweep these beings into captivity if we can’t force them back in retreat.’
The quandary held far-reaching implications since a free wraith without Name could not be grappled. These had already defied the Wheel’s passage into natural death. To destroy the unclothed spirit was to unweave a strand of Ath’s creation, a misuse of grand conjury and a direct intervention against the prime vibration that no Fellowship tenet could sanction. The Sorcerers were committed to harm no being, nor to unbind or inhibit any spark of self-awareness, even at the cost of their very lives.
While the entities seethed to renew their assault, Luhaine conjoined his spirit essence in painstaking care with the seals spread across the surface of the tabletop. A moment passed as he asked free consent from the stone. Then curtains of sparks fountained around the bronze tripod of the brazier. In a torrent of force borrowed from the third lane, the discorporate Sorcerer melted the dark rock and reshaped its gold magma to form a canister.
His work singed the air into stinging, dry wind. Unbound sheets of parchment thrashed in scraping distress across the floor to catch on the chair legs and hang on the carved Khadrim that formed the table’s massive pedestal. The wraiths winnowed through like floss caught in current, bent once again on Althain’s Warden. Their caustic contempt rang in dissonance against mage-tuned awareness. Prolonged years of battle against Kharadmon had taught these enemies too well. They understood the limitations of their prey: provoke how they might, twist life as they would, no Fellowship mage would spurn Ath’s trust and the Law of the Major Balance to fling spells of unmaking against them.
The Sorcerers who protected Athera were guardians. Their strength of constraint could be used against them as a weapon to breach their steadfast self-command and turn moral force into weakness.
Whether the powers Sethvir could have raised on a thought to negate any threat to his autonomy tormented him to temptation, none could know as the wraiths closed upon him. He watched their advance with pale. narrowed eyes, his wiry shoulders bowed as if the drag of his robes bore him down. The ink stains showed stark against knuckles bleached and gnarled as stranded driftwood. In a move that looked like a vagary of nerves, he exchanged his chalk stick for two dusty bits of river stone, plucked in haste from the clutter by the windowsill.
‘Don’t try a field charge to corner them.’ Bled from the effort of his own defences, Kharadmon’s voice was a wisp of its usual rich timbre. ‘That sort of energy feeds them.’
‘I saw,’ Sethvir said. His empty hand gripped the table edge. The wraiths fanned about him, less substantial than half-glimpsed puffs of spent smoke. Before their poised menace, he seemed a wizened grandfather, reduced by senility to threatening thrown pebbles to halt the rise of a flood.
‘There’s another way to draw them,’ Sethvir offered. ‘Above anything they want to seize control of my gifts.’
Luhaine responded in fraught fear, ‘Don’t try. You cannot think to risk baiting them!’
But the Warden already chanted a musical phrase in Paravian. The pebbles radiated a kindly warmth through his palm, then chimed back a note of assurance. His binding immediately paired them one to another in tuned resonance.
In the instant the wraiths closed, Sethvir cast the first stone into the obsidian cylinder Luhaine had fashioned from the table slab. The second he p
itched to the floor. His throw held no apparent force; yet the river rock struck and shattered into a thousand tiny fragments. These scattered as though life and will lent them impetus to lodge in every cranny of the library.
The same moment, Sethvir’s knees gave way. He slumped against the table, then slid unconscious into a rumpled heap of robes. His sunken cheek lay pillowed in his beard and hair, entangled as a mass of washed fleeces.
‘Ath, the grand idiot!’ Luhaine cried on a shocked snap of breeze. ‘He’s split his consciousness and fused each part into the shards of the rock!’
But the tactic had succeeded. Already the wraiths were diverted, divided and quartering every square inch of floor to retrieve the prize within the pebble’s sundered pieces. Each one of these contained, like a puzzle, a scrap of Sethvir’s awareness. Entirely without fight, the entities could have stolen his emptied flesh. But since access to the earth link was their coveted aim, the body was a useless container to them without the Warden’s talents and spirit. In the predictable arrogance of wraith forms, they spurned the physical housing and pressed in greed to gather and conquer each disparate bit of the Sorcerer’s essence.
‘Will you whine, or will you stand strong?’ Kharadmon exhorted. For the wraiths would possess what they recovered from the stone shards. The only help for Sethvir now lay in two colleagues’ readiness to back his desperate ploy.
Nine hostile entities and a thousand slivers of stone to seek out; the spirits prowled the flagstones, searching hungrily, spinning like unspooled thread between the chair legs and through the dust-clogged mesh of old spiderwebs spanning the feet of the cupboards. Their trackless passage breathed draughts across Sethvir’s slackened knuckles and combed through every moth-hole in his sleeves.
Eyeless, senseless, lured on by the singing glints of spirit light that formed the sundered slivers of their prey, the wraiths were doubly guided in their hunt by the pewter dance of energies which framed the prosaic signature of river stone. They skimmed like gleaners on a threshing floor and claimed their offered prize.
