Keeper of the Keys

by Janny Wurts

  XIII

  Maelgrim

  After rest and food and an accounting of events in the Llondelei burrow, Corley put away his whetstone and sheathed the impeccable steel of his knives. To the relief of his crew, he ceased to pace the quarterdeck through the night and the day while Taen recovered from the exhaustion of her ordeal. Still, watches were kept with strict regularity, and a scout network continued to quarter the shoreline for Thienz-sign. Since they discovered nothing more threatening than a fishing boat abandoned in a thorn thicket. Moonless remained at anchor off Tierl Enneth.

  But Jaric's restlessness would not abate. More silent than usual, he avoided company, and even Taen had difficulty drawing him out.

  'Sulk in peace, then,' she retorted in exasperation when for the second time in an hour the boy retreated into the chart room. After that the Dreamweaver resorted to card games to fill her time. The sailhands resurrected their stakes from knotted stockings and sea chests. More than a few groused that dampness had transformed their former winnings to sprouts. For a time, the cook found it necessary to forestall looters by barricading the bean stores in the galley. Loud-voiced, boastful, and vociferously protective of the Dreamweaver who teased them to laughter, the off-watch crew aboard Moonless settled comfortably back to routine. Corley reviewed reports from his scouts between stints of cursing the healer. When the persistent, meddling fool finally stopped worrying at his scabs, the captain channelled his own excess energy into resuming Jaric's education at arms.

  Corley then drove his charge relentlessly to assess the effects of Brith's teaching. He found Jaric's attitude changed in more than technique. Where once the boy had handled his blades with a tentative, even fussy finesse, he now struck out boldly. Gratified by the belling clang of solid blocks and parries, Corley grinned, then pushed the boy harder. But now the captain added occasional words of praise between epithets. That teacher and pupil both used the practice to vent their internal frustrations did not matter; in a short time, the Firelord's heir would be capable of defending himself with a fair degree of skill.

  By the seventh day, Taen had recovered equilibrium enough to resume command of her Sathid-born powers. Jaric endured his morning sword drill with evident impatience; the instant Corley excused him, he hastened below decks and tossed his sword on his berth without pausing to oil the blade. At last, Taen could turn her talents to dream-search the secret knowledge of the priests who lived in seclusion at Landfast. Pitched to feverish anxiety, Jaric hurried to the Dreamweaver's cabin, only to find her absent.

  The captain's steward reassured him. 'Taen said you'd ask for her. You'll find her waiting in the chart room.'

  Jaric voiced a breathless thanks. His steps slowed as he made his way aft and stepped through the chart-room door. The lantern swung gently over a table cleared of maps. Taen sat with closed eyes, her breathing gentled in the peaceful rhythm of sleep. Jaric saw with trepidation that she had already focused her dream-sense and begun the tedious search; for amid Landfast's populace, few minds held knowledge of the mysteries guarded by Kor's Brotherhood.

  Jaric eased the door closed. Too restless to sit, he paced, his head bent to accommodate the low ceiling. Nerves and the stifling heat thrown off by the lamp made him sweat. The sanctuary towers had been sealed by the founders of the Landfast Council; to break their edict constituted treason. Yet should demons conquer the Alliance, that same knowledge would be threatened. The heritage and purpose of Keithland's forebears might surely be lost. Burdened by the horrors of Llondian prophecy, Jaric crossed and recrossed the space between table and chart locker. Only one fact mattered: if the sanctuary towers failed to yield answers, all that lay between Keithland's continuance and mankind's survival was himself, and the Cycle of Fire.

  Hours passed. The lamp burned low and finally flickered out. Smoke spindled up from its spent wick. Jaric struck a spark to a candle he found in a locker, then sat and busied himself with oil flask and wicking string. With the meticulous care learned under a forester's guidance, he cleaned the lantern and set the flame burning once more. A golden circle of light illuminated the cabin. Across the breadth of the chart table, Taen lay motionless in trance. Her hair spilled over her wrists, ink-black against pale skin. The curve of her cheek lay tilted towards Jaric; if her lashes and brows seemed delicate as a master artist's brushstroke, any image of perfection was marred by the broken thumbnail which peeped beneath her chin. Devoid of jewel or artifice, clad in a shift of plainest linen, the girl owned all the spare beauty of a wild creature of the wood. Jaric felt his breath catch.

  He set aside the knife he had used to pare wicks. As if the smallest disruption might break the spell and rouse her, he clamped his oil-streaked fingers in his cuffs. Earlier he had been unable to keep still; now, if an enemy burst in and challenged him with a naked blade, he would have found it impossible to move. Blood rushed through his veins. His skin went hot, then cold, and he swallowed painfully. This girl had been all things to him: betrayer, confidante, a friend who had badgered him until he laughed, and a kindred spirit, who had eased him through times of anguish; but suddenly, in the undefined space between one breath and the next, this same girl became the one treasure in all Keithland that he could not bear to lose.

  Jaric regarded Taen with a hunger he never knew he possessed. The lamp burned lower by his elbow. Memories of the matronly ridicule he had suffered at Morbrith faded until, almost, Jaric imagined he could touch this woman and receive her welcome. Moonless swung against her anchor line, disturbed by a breath of wind. Draught from the hatchway tumbled a strand of hair across the pink curve of Taen's lips. She stirred, her brows pinched into a frown. The same breeze eddied across Jaric's sweating skin. He shivered and abruptly recalled his fate. Between himself and the girl across the table lay futures too terrible to contemplate: the bloodied knife of the brother who would kill her, or the madness of the Cycle of Fire. And if he hesitated in his choice, if he delayed one day or one hour too long, Thienz might destroy them both.

  Jaric shoved violently to his feet. He stifled a raw cry and braced his fists against the bulkhead. No alternative offered relief. Of the countless cruelties Ivain had inflicted upon Keithland in his madness, his mistreatment of women was least forgivable. Jaric understood that to complete his father's heritage, he must first sacrifice his feelings for Taen. On this, his self-control wavered dangerously. If the search of the sanctuary towers failed him, he wondered whether he would have strength enough to leave her, as he must, since the presence of the Firelord's heir would inevitably draw enemies. Jaric stared down at his hands. He dared not look towards the chart table. If he did, even once, the sight of the girl would break him.

  No hand moved to trim the lantern wick. At length the flame trembled, thinned to red, and sparked out. Taen sighed in the darkness. Warned by a rustle of cloth, Jaric knew she awakened. He waited with taut muscles, yet failed to hear her step. The first he knew of her presence was a feather-light touch on his shoulder.

  'Jaric?'

  He whirled, backed against the unyielding frame of the bulkhead.

  She could not read his face in the darkness. 'Jaric? What's wrong?'

  Ivain's heir fought his voice level. 'You surprised me.'

  Blind himself in the shadow, he heard her sandal scrape the deck. Then the striker snapped. Haloed in the light of new flame, Taen closed the glass shutter and stretched on tiptoe and hung the lamp from the hook above the chart table.

  She faced him then, and he saw her eyes were full of tears.

  'I didn't find what you need.'

  Pained by her anguish, Jaric took a moment to understand the import of her statement.

  'The minds of the priests in seclusion are beyond my reach,' Taen resumed. 'I cannot tell why. Perhaps the stone of sanctuary itself forms a defensive barrier.' She hesitated, and the disappointment she felt on his behalf cut Jaric to the quick. 'I turned from the towers, and tried the mind of the Supreme High Star, whose sacred title is Guardian of the Gates. He
alone knows what secrets the tower protects. Jaric, you'll find no help against demons at Landfast.'

  Safe beyond range of her touch, the boy lifted brown eyes to her face. 'Tell me why.'

  Taen answered reluctantly. 'The sanctuary towers contain keys to Kor's Sacred Fires, also answers to the riddles of eternal, space and time. But by divine decree, that knowledge must be withheld from man until all demons are vanquished from Keithland.'

  Jaric closed his eyes. Sweat on his skin caught the lamplight like gilt, and his chest heaved as if he had been running. Taen had phrased her findings in religious terms, but through Llondian memory, Jaric perceived more. Almost certainly Landfast preserved plans to the engine of Corinne Dane, heritage of mankind's origin among the stars. How many would be slaughtered if demons knew such knowledge still existed? Even now the anguished words of the starprobe's long-dead captain echoed in Ivainson's thoughts. 'If Corinne Dane's mission fails, if mankind doesn 't discover a defence against powers such as your Llondelei possess, the only human survivors left in creation will be those colonies enslaved by the Gierj.'

  Corinne Dane had flown, and crashed like a stricken bird on hostile soil. Jaric swallowed, dangerously near to weeping. His last hope had failed, left him lightless in the shadows of his weakness. In a moment of gritty honesty he admitted he had built dreams only to delay, for since his interview with the Grand High Star at Landfast the truth had been apparent. Had a weapon against demons existed, Corinne Dane's band of castaways would never have formed the Landfast Council, nor drawn up their charter of secrecy; they would have rebuilt their broken ship and brought rescue to their beleaguered civilization among the stars. Instead, for a span of centuries, Keithland's people had struggled for survival, precariously defended by the talents of Vaere-trained sorcerers. Jaric drew a shuddering breath. Safe haven no longer existed. If he asked passage to the Isle of the Vaere, or fled from Moonless to spare Taen from the Thienz who tracked him, already he might be too late. Racked by indecision, Ivainson Jaric opened his eyes.

  The lantern flame wavered, recently brushed by a draught. The chart room stood empty. Attuned to the depth of his distress, Taen had possessed the wisdom and the tact to leave him in solitude.

  * * *

  Corley ordered Moonless under way at the turn of the tide. The clank of the capstan and the rattle of chain through the hawse reverberated the length and beam of the brigantine, yet Taen barely noticed the din. Weary from her dream-search of Landfast, she sat on her berth in the darkness, her heels tapping restlessly against the wooden locker beneath. She needed no Dreamweaver's talents to sense Jaric's apprehension of the Cycle of Fire. Distressed that she could not console him, and afraid if she sought counsel from the Vaere that Tamlin would command her to intervene and force Jaric to accept his father's heritage, she longed for the wise comfort of Anskiere of Elrinfaer.

  Moonless shuddered as her anchor ripped free of the seabed. The rhythm of the capstan's pawls quickened, and feet thumped on the decking overhead as sailhands rushed to man sheets and braces. 'Steady as she goes!' yelled Corley from the quarterdeck. The brigantine lifted into a heel as yards of unbrailed canvas caught the wind. Taen settled with her back against the bulkhead. She did not weep. Though emotions knotted the core of her being, she was the daughter of an Imrill Kand fisherman, born to hardship and loss. She had learned early to temper misery with practicality. If Jaric refused the Cycle of Fire, not even the Vaere could change his mind. To wish for the guidance of an absent sorcerer would not cure the problem; and the effort of the morning left her drained. Aching, and unsettled by problems too great for her powers to encompass, she rested her head against the bulkhead.

  Light sleep claimed her unawares. The security set about the sanctuary towers at Landfast had been complex, taxing in the extreme to unravel; concern for Jaric had driven her to an imprudent outlay of energy. Now, drifting directionless in dreams, Taen failed to safeguard all her channels. A compulsion crept in, not her own, but threaded through her thoughts with a tact that could only come from one who had known and loved her. Slowly, subtly, the intrusive presence blended with the essence of her will; and presently subtle prompts became conviction.

  Since the demons' strike against Keithland involved the brother they held captive, Taen saw clearly where duty lay. In the past, she had failed to save her brother from the guilt-ridden misery which had pressured him to forsake his own kind. Now the only option left was to prevent him from becoming a weapon against humanity. She must engage her mastery, contact Emien in the heart of Shadowfane, and attempt to break him free of the demons' influence.

  Spray sheeted across Moonless's stern as she rounded the headlands of Tierl Enneth and jibed for the open sea. Jounced against the bulkhead as the spanker boom slammed on to starboard tack, Taen centred her awareness. She did not feel the draught which spilled through the grate, nor did she smell the sea breeze, spiked with the scent of impending rain. Never did she imagine that her intent had been moulded by enemies who shaped a snare. Unwary, and drawn by love, her dream-sense carried her awareness across the wild barrens beyond the borders of Keithland.

  Gusts whined across the stone spires of Shadowfane; echoes like the keening of grief-stricken women penetrated even the depths of the dungeon where Taen found Emien. The man she recognized as her brother crouched in darkness within the barred confines of a cell. His face was hidden behind scarred fingers while a Sathid matrix cross-linked to demon masters deepened its grip upon his mind. Careful not to disrupt his equilibrium, Taen extended her dream-sense and tentatively encompassed his thoughts.

  At once, she knew nightmares. Prompted by the crystal's guidance, Emien relived events from his past as vividly as the day they occurred. Taen merged with his consciousness as fluidly as water flowing into a pool. Through her brother's dreams she observed a storm-lashed vista of ocean. Wind screamed, blasting the wave crests into spray, while the sibling she remembered clung with wet hands to the gunwale of a pinnace. Numbly he watched the galleass he had abandoned founder among the swells. Though the vessel was half-veiled in spindrift, Taen recognized King Kisburn's flagship. Crow, which had borne the Stormwarden in chains from Imrill Kand. She, a girl of ten, had stowed away to free him. Emien had boarded later, with a vow to bring his sister safely home; instead he had lost her.

  Now the demon-controlled Sathid he had inherited from his mistress compelled remembrance. Battered by storm winds of Anskiere's making, Emien watched the galleass settle beneath the waves. The Dreamweaver who shared his memory felt the grief and sick anger which thwarted him from tears; for the boy believed his younger sister was still trapped in the galleass's hold. The blame for her death was entirely his. Wretched with loss, he knew guilt; the familiar, terrible guilt he had suffered when his father drowned in the net his own carelessness had entangled. Mourning could not absolve him; crushed beneath an overwhelming weight of responsibility, Emien sought release in vicious anger against the Stormwarden who had lured his sister into danger.

  Taen saw her chance, but lost any opening to act.

  The demon-controlled Sathid which supplanted her brother's will arose like a cyclone of force. It splintered Emien's spirit like a hammerblow. The self-inflicted anguish of a sister's death became multiplied tenfold, twentyfold, twenty hundredfold, until agony became the sum of his existence. Taen lost her grip. The torment which harrowed her brother sucked her deep into the recesses of his mind, and through his mouth she screamed and screamed again. Emien's cell rang with echoes while slowly, painstakingly, Taen recovered a semblance of control.

  But for the brother entrapped at Shadowfane, the agony continued. Tortured beyond reason by despair, he sought oblivion. Power blocked his desire. Demon voices addressed him through the Sathid link which bound his conscious will.

  'As Emien, you suffer needless loyalty for a sister who later betrayed you. As Maelgrim-demon-honoured, you can spare yourself Would you choose to renounce this memory?'

  Thrashing in unbearable anguish, Em
ien whispered hoarsely, 'Yes. Set me free.'

  'So be it. Become Maelgrim.' A sigh like wind passed across the link. Bound to the consciousness of her brother, Taen perceived a series of sparkling flashes. Storm-tossed ocean frothed beneath the pinnace's keel; exactly as before, Emien regarded the foundering pinnace. Only the remorse he once had felt for his lost sister was gone. Now the anger and hatred for Anskiere remained, resonating through Maelgrim's awareness like the tireless toll of fog bells.

  Prompted by the Sathid, the boy dreamed on, of the white-haired witch whose incomparable beauty had captured his loyalty. He noticed no eddy as the sister who shared his vision drew back from his mind. Horrified by the demons' meddling, and utterly careless of risk, Taen delved into her brother's memories with every shred of her skill. There she found that the sibling she had known and loved during childhood had changed beyond recognition. Where Emien should have recalled his mother and his home on Imrill Kand, his sister found gaps braced by bitterness, resentment, and malice; his inborn humanity was shattered nearly past hope of mending. In time, Taen saw that all compassion would perish, leaving a demon abomination named Maelgrim.

  That transformation must not happen undisputed. Roused to outrage and fury, the Dreamweaver focused her will. As her brother cried out under a fresh onslaught of torment, she raised a veil of resistance across his mind to block the demons' designs.

  For an instant Emien's screams ceased. Sharing his moment of reprieve, Taen knew the draughty damp of a cell where a lost, beloved voice cried out, 'Sister?'

  Then with the subtlety of a chess gambit, Shadowfane's minions narrowed their trap. Power arose, a storm song of force terrible as the wail of the damned. Slammed by a barrier of limitless dark, Taen mustered resistance; the vigour of her own Sathid link answered the demons' challenge. Her offence struck their barricade with a tortured flash of sparks. Forces thundered and spun like a cataclysm unleashed. The restraints set upon her by demons shivered, thinned, and finally tore asunder. Taen blazed through the gap, prepared to defend Emien's mind.