Keeper of the Keys

by Janny Wurts

  But the ravaged entity which remained of the brother she had loved did not stand in her support on the other side. The entire sequence had been a ruse, designed and intended to imprison her. Whirled haplessly into the destructive malice of Maelgrim, Taen felt herself seized and mangled by rage which understood no limit. Frantically she tried to withdraw. Her defence came too late. Demons controlled Maelgrim; and since their servant had been born her brother, his talent potentially matched her own. Even as Taen sensed the roused awareness of his matrix, demons assumed control. They urged the cross-linked Sathid to attack. Energies surged across the link and attempted to manipulate her own powers against her.

  Taen bolted in terror. Should the enemy succeed in awakening her own Sathid's awareness, she would be crushed, her will extinguished as swiftly as a candle in a gale. The consequences of defeat stopped thought. Blind with panic, and still depleted from her session that morning with Jaric, Taen mustered her remaining resources into a flare of raw power. She strove, yet failed to snap the dream-link. Harried across distance by the malevolent entities of Shadowfane, Taen tried to quench her powers within the circle of her own awareness; surely no evil could challenge her within the security of her cabin on Moonless.

  But the assumption proved false. The demons retained their hold. As Taen dissolved ties with her brother, enemies reversed the polarity of the link with a stinging lash of force; and for the space of a heartbeat, the Dreamweaver became Shadowfane's puppet. Through her consciousness, the enemy assimilated all, brigantine, crew, and captain. Taen experienced a savage flash of annoyance as the demons recognized Corley; his machinations had cost them a victory at Cliffhaven, as well as the lives of eight Thienz on Tierl Enneth. Yet Shadowfane's minions did not pause to strike. Instead, voraciously hating, they discovered one they despised more, one they hunted because in time his talents might mature to threaten their designs: Ivain Firelord's heir sailed on board a brigantine whose destination was the Isle of the Vaere.

  Taen screamed aloud. Unable to endure any threat to Jaric, she convulsed and ripped into the depths of her being. Life-force itself became tinder for her rage, and the conflagration raised a white flash of power. The result tore through the demons' hold, and she woke disoriented in darkness.

  Panting in the dampness of her own sweat, blinded and choking on tears, Taen took several seconds to recognize her surroundings. Moonless reeled in the throes of a squall. Waves thudded against the brigantine's sides, shivering timbers and keel, and wind shrilled through tackle and rigging with the savagery of a witch shrieking curses. Ragged with exhaustion, and tormented with self-reproach for the dangers brought on by her lapse of discipline, Taen pushed herself upright. That moment the companionway door banged open.

  Deison Corley burst across the threshold. A lantern swung from his fist and his bronzed hair dripped rain. 'Kor's grace, what's happened?'

  'Demons.' Taen fought to steady herself. 'The compact at Shadowfane has taken over my brother. His powers are theirs, and through him I was lured into contact. Kor's Accursed attacked me across the link.'

  Corley swore; shadows spun crazily across the cabin as he raised the lantern to a hook set in the deck beams overhead. 'List the damage. Quickly.'

  Taen drew a shaking breath. 'The enemy knows Moonless is bound for the Isle of the Vaere.'

  'Destinations can be changed.' snapped the captain. 'What else?'

  'Jaric.' Taen began. As Corley surged forward in alarm, she backed her voice with a Dreamweaver's compulsion. 'No! Things aren't that desperate! The demons have no knowledge of Jaric, except what they could sort from my brother's memories.' Taen qualified with an image drawn from the past, and Corley shared the immediate impression of a frightened, diffident boy, flattened at swordpoint against a thorny tangle of brush; so had Jaric appeared to Emien upon the shores of Elrinfaer at the moment the Keys were won. Taen's meaning was poignantly clear; without the support of a Dreamweaver's mastery on that day, Ivain Firelord's heir could never have completed the Stormwarden's bidding.

  'Jaric's changed a great deal since then.' Corley conceded. 'But you know that's stinking little protection. Won't count a dog's damn against the might of Shadowfane. The boy must be warned.'

  He snatched down his lantern and moved to go; and Taen's perception caught the concern which filled the captain's mind. When Corley had entered the chart room to plot his course, Jaric had learned Moonless would sail for the Isle of the Vaere. A brief but stormy confrontation had resulted; reflexively, Taen reached out for Jaric's thoughts, her intent to measure the impact of the captain's insensitive rejoinders. The quality of the silence which met her all but stopped her heart.

  'Wait!' Frantic with worry, Taen Dreamweaver leapt from her bunk. 'Corley, wait, I'm coming with you.'

  She bolted through the companionway. Rain slashed her face, backed by a howling wind. Hard on Corley's heels, the girl struggled to climb the wet and heaving ladder. Even as she gained the quarterdeck, a shout from the officer on watch hailed the captain.

  'Boy's gone overboard.'

  'Quartermaster, hard alee!' Corley bellowed. He thrust the lantern into the startled grasp of a sailor, then bolted for the rail. His brawny hands snatched up the line which secured Callinde. 'Boatswain! Stand by to man the tackles!'

  With a stupendous heave of muscles, Corley dragged the towrope in hand over hand. Coils flaked across the deck, and presently Callinde's dark shape loomed through the squall. Gold against the white of the waves, a head broke the surface of the sea. Jaric shook the hair from his face and clung like a limpet to Callinde's prow. Even as the Kielmark's captain sought to drag him back, Taen arrived, slight and soaked like an otter beside Corley's great bulk. She saw steel flash in Jaric's hand. The line sang, short and sharp, and splashed slack into the sea.

  Corley dropped the severed rope and swore. With barely a break in motion, he threw off his sword belt and began to strip his person of weapons. He intended to swim for the boy, Taen saw.

  She caught his elbow as the first of his knives clattered to the deck. 'No! You must not follow him!'

  Corley jerked free, a dagger in each hand and a murderous frown on his face. 'Why not?'

  The Dreamweaver raised her voice over the flapping din of canvas as the brigantine rounded to weather. 'Jaric's pushed to the edge already, can't you see? And aboard Callinde he'll be safe if demons strike at Moonless.'

  Corley cursed, on the brink of diving overboard.

  Taen shouted. 'Not even the Stormwarden dared force Jaric to the Cycle of Fire! Would you break his mind trying?' And she braced herself to protect with her Vaere-trained powers as enchantress.

  Rain slashed across wood and oilskin and the flogging yards of canvas overhead. Finally Corley jammed one knife, then the other, into the sheaths at his wrists. 'Kor's Eternal Fires, girl. If I could lay hands on that boy's hide, I'd flay him quick. Will he ever learn not to jump ship without his weapons?'

  Shivering, her hair fallen wet around the delicate lines of her collarbone, Taen stared after the vanishing shape of Callinde. And shocked back to reason by the stricken expression on her face, Corley caught her close.

  'Jaric's tough, you know that, girl. However hard he's pushed, I never yet saw him run.' A gust caught the spanker even as he spoke, recalling Corley to his neglected command. Belatedly he remembered he must chart a new course for Moonless, away from the southerly heading Shadowfane's compact would expect him to hold for the Isle of the Vaere.

  Taen sensed his thought. Suddenly she longed for the village of her birth, a harbour so remote that Anskiere himself had chosen the site as a refuge after the disaster which destroyed Tierl Enneth. Imrill Kand as a haven made sound sense. Warned and alert to her peril, she would never again let her defences slip; and if demons did trace Moonless, a northwesterly course might provide a foil for Jaric and Callinde.

  'Put me down,' she demanded of Corley. 'Then sail me home. Please. Put about and go east to Imrill Kand.'

  The captain rega
rded her with the level attention he usually granted to equals. 'You're sure? Luck won't forgive if your judgement's sour, and to sail that course will be in defiance of the Kielmark's orders.'

  Taen tilted her head with a shaky ghost of a smile. 'The same tired argument? I thought we wore that one out on the night of your master's victory party.'

  Corley sucked air through his teeth; irritation and laughter warred on his rain-drenched face as he released the Dreamweaver abruptly. 'Don't ever count on that one, girl.' After an interval trading glares, his humour finally won out. 'The day I give over my command to a cheeky, wet snip of a girl, those dogs in the forecastle will be sewing my carcass into sailcloth. Now that fact's understood, will you go get dry? You've given Moonless's healer and my steward enough grey hair without adding pneumonia to their troubles.'

  XIV

  Hunted

  Dawn broke between squalls. Sunrise peeped through the last, low-flying clouds and scattered an arching magnificence of rainbows, but Jaric regarded their loveliness with little joy. Moonless and Tierl Enneth had long since vanished over the horizon. Alone upon the sea, the boy huddled in Callinde's stern with both hands clenched to the steering oar. West winds drove his boat on a broad reach. Once he cleared the archipelago beyond the point of Tierl Enneth, he would turn south to Landfast and every indulgence a port city could provide. Until then, during a fortnight-and-a-half passage through mild summer weather, Jaric had solitude and too much time to reflect. He sailed Callinde and tried desperately to keep thoughts of Taen from his mind.

  The night fell calm and star-studded. Jaric hove his boat to and ate a meagre meal from his stores. Rocked upon the face of the sea, he slept only to waken screaming in horror of the Cycle of Fire. Later he tried tending the steering oar from sunset to dawn; but fatigue inevitably betrayed him. Against his will his eyes closed, and nightmares caught him at the helm. Callinde bore off her course; time and again the rattling crash of jibed sails battered Jaric back to wakefulness. In despair he buried his face in his hands and wished for stormy weather. The present, changeless blue of water and sky reminded him endlessly of Taen's eyes.

  Conditions remained fair, though the wind rounded to a southwest heading. Forced to tack, Jaric revised his course and beached on a wild spit of land west of Islamere. There he trapped game, foraged tubers for the food locker, and refilled his water casks. Since Callinde sailed poorly to weather, he camped four days until the winds blew easterly, then crossed the final leagues to Landfast under gathering sheets of cloud.

  Lightning laced the sky and thunder crashed when at length he rounded the islet of Little Dagley. Torrents of rain dimmed the light beacons on the jetties to weak haloes. Worn to exhaustion, and harassed by the pound of the squall against the sails, Jaric threaded a cautious course between the anchored ships and mooring buoys which cluttered the inner bay. He rounded Callinde to windward and at last dropped sail by the harbourmaster's shed.

  A dock lackey in fresh-looking oilskins caught Callinde's lines. Jaric jumped ashore. He failed to note that the servant eyed him with wariness. Drenched, bearded, and ungroomed after a three-and-a-half week passage, the boy warped his boat to the bollards. Muscles bunched under his wet skin, and the scars left from recent sword cuts shone livid and red across the knuckles of his dagger hand. Preoccupied and weary, Jaric ducked past the lackey and barged through the doorway of the harbourmaster's shed to negotiate dockage for Callinde.

  The master on duty leapt to his feet so quickly the beribboned beret which displayed his badge of office ' slipped down across his eyes. 'You again! Fires, and what could you want this time?' He straightened the hat, revealing a droopy moustache and an anxious frown.

  Jaric stopped in his tracks. Water dripped from his tunic, spattering the swept boards of the floor. 'I want dock space for a fishing boat ten spans in length.'

  He raised a hand to his belt. The official flinched, but the boy drew no weapon. Instead Jaric pulled forth a leather bag and spilled a flood of coins on the counting table. Silvers bounced, rolled, and clanged into stillness, while the man behind the table slowly turned pale.

  'Well?' Jaric gestured impatiently. 'Are you deaf and blind? I said I want -'

  The official lifted a trembling hand. 'I heard. And I remember. You're master of Callinde?'

  Jaric nodded.

  'Kor!' The man dropped into his chair as if his legs had failed him. 'Would you ruin me? That boat's marked in the Kielmark's registry. No fee. Do you hear?'

  Jaric made no move to retrieve his coins. 'I swore no fealty to Cliffhaven.' But the anger in his tone made the ribbons in the man's hat quiver all the more.

  The official swept the silvers into a heap and shoved them across the table with a rasping jangle. 'Corley himself named you for the Kielmark's exemption. I won't be jeopardizing the trade of every guild in Landfast, knowing that. D'you think I want to hang because I brought Cliffhaven's retribution, and only a wharf fee to show for it? No. Get out. Callinde docks free until I'm personally informed otherwise.'

  Jaric shifted his weight to depart. But the harbourmaster bolted from his chair and plucked at the young captain's sleeve in sharp distress. 'Boy, please. Don't be leaving any coin.'

  Jaric swore. 'If honest silver bothers you, then give it to the one-handed beggar with the tabby cat.'

  The official released him in dismay. 'Which, the one who got arrested for striking the guards' master of arms?'

  Jaric jerked and stopped, hands knotted into fists; and the harbourmaster recoiled into the table, inciting a tinkle of coins.

  'Arrested?' The boy sounded strangely heartbroken. Must everyone who befriended him come to harm? The beggar who had downed Brith had probably saved Taen's life.

  Grief caught Jaric off guard, twisted, and became anger. 'Send the silver to pay the beggar's fine, then!' he shouted at the dockmaster. 'Tell him to spend what's left, along with my apology for the prison charge.'

  The official drew breath to protest. But the boy stormed through the door, leaving water puddled on the floorboards, and a troublesome pile of silver on the table. The harbourmaster swore. He called the man on dock watch in from the rain and, with utmost distaste, despatched the fellow to the town prison with Jaric's coin and orders to free a one-handed beggar and a cat.

  * * *

  Rain glazed the slate roofs of Landfast, and cold, whipping wind chased the run-off into currents across the cobbles. Jaric slogged through the storm with his head down. He had no particular destination, only a driving need to forget the leather bag full of sorcerer's wards which swung at his neck, token of the destiny set on him by a father and a weathermage he had never known. That he could not compromise his fate without losing the black-haired enchantress who had captured his heart caused him pain beyond bearing. Jaric splashed through puddles until he found himself by the Docksider's Alehouse. Drenched and morose, he pushed the door open and entered.

  The taproom was crowded with patrons from every walk of the waterfront. Tracking footprints across brick that was already wet, Jaric pressed between a knot of dice-throwing sailhands and two merchants who argued with a captain over bills of lading. A pot boy stoked the fire on the hearth beyond, his face flushed red as nearby longshoremen shouted unflattering comments about his skinny frame. Once Jaric had been the butt of such jokes. Unaware how greatly he had changed since his initial passage from Cliffhaven, he hurried to the bar, where he tallied what remained of his coins. He spent all but two coppers on a wineskin. Then he retired to an uncrowded corner and sought the oblivion of drink.

  When he was a scrawny apprentice at Morbrith Keep, unwatered wine invariably caused Jaric to fall asleep. Now, in the smoky air of a Landfast alehouse, the remedy chosen to, drown his sorrows did not take immediate effect. Ivainson hunched in his dripping clothes, while the talk of a dozen groups of men swirled around him. He listened to debates over prices of silk and wool, a discussion of shipping hazards, and several rounds of sailhands' tales relating mishaps at sea. All the w
hile, rain drummed on the roof shingles, relentless as Keithland's doom. The afternoon wore on. Gradually the wineskin grew flatter. Jaric regarded the ebb and flow of patrons with owlish eyes. He sat unresponsive when the one-handed beggar his money had freed burst in, jubilantly flipping coins while the tabby on his shoulder batted playful paws at the flash of silver. The vagabond ordered beer for himself and his pet, and half the men in the taproom burst into laughter.

  Jaric settled his chin on his fists. Too moody to respond when the redheaded barmaid paused by his elbow to flirt, he closed his eyes. The girl's smooth skin reminded him unbearably of Taen. Presently the barmaid plied her charms elsewhere. The wineskin lay empty beneath the boy's hand, and at last the drink overwhelmed him. Jaric settled into sleep that felt like death.

  * * *

  The boy woke to coarse words and a hand shaking his shoulder. He blinked, stirred, and found a burly man in a leather jerkin standing over him, shouting.

  'Get up, tar-knuckles. Time to lock the doors. This isn't an inn, and nobody stays the night.'

  'I'm no sailor.' Jaric muttered. He tried to straighten, groaned, and pressed both hands to his aching head.

  'Don't matter what,' said the man. He caught the boy's tunic and yanked. 'Out with you.'

  Thrust to his feet, Jaric stumbled. His clothing reeked of wine, and movement made his stomach heave. He started on unsteady legs towards the privy behind the bar.

  The man in the leather jerkin wasted no breath on warnings. He seized Jaric by the collar, propelled him forcibly across the tap to the door, and pushed him into the night. The boy tripped over the steps and sprawled face first into a mud puddle. He raised himself, shuddering, while the door boomed closed, then promptly fell, sick to his stomach. When the nausea subsided, Jaric settled his back against the tavern stoop and took stock of his position.