by Janny Wurts
The Sorcerer’s touch roved across her person. Where it passed, it transformed. Tangled, sooty hair became combed and shining. Torn clothes and abraded skin knit without trace of flaw, and spun wool acquired the watery, smooth sheen of butter-colored silk.
Ielond paused to admire his handiwork. “That should serve well enough.”
Elienne examined the gown that clothed her. The hand she raised to touch was weighted unfamiliarly with gems at wrist and finger. They were heavy and cold; real.
“The traditional gold of Pendaire‘s brides becomes you well,” Ielond observed, and this time his words drew reaction.
Elienne stiffened. Anger bloomed across her pale cheeks. “Would you marry me to a stranger on the day of my husband’s death?” Hysteria edged her voice, and her eyes sparkled with sudden tears. “Well, would you, Gifted?”
Ielond declined answer. “You are overwrought,” but his intended kindness was lost upon Elienne. She stepped back as he reached for her.
“Overwrought!” said Elienne. “Your heart is cold as Etemity, Gifted. Let Pendaire‘s Prince seek his own bride, if indeed he has the manhood.”
Ielond caught Elienne as she turned, pulling her to him. She expected his immediate anger. She received instead a view of raised brows and a startled, rueful smile.
“I see I did not err in my choice. You must forgive my haste. If we survive the consequence of what you just wrought, I promise you won’t regret.”
“Consequence?” Elienne shrugged coldly, but Ielond did not release her.
“Just that,” said Ielond, and at that moment the whirlwind caught them. Ice-edged and furious, Elienne recognized the same force that had torn her from Ielond’s grasp earlier. Chilled through her thin silk, she braced herself with a rising sense of apprehension. When the Sorcerer’s arms encircled her from behind and gathered her into a bear hug, she did not struggle.
The wind rushed and eddied, carving the ice crystals underfoot into whirling patterns until the air became saturated, opaquely white. Ielond’s cloak snapped back on itself with whipcrack reports. Yet he stood as a rock does when battered by storm and surf, Elienne held secure in his embrace.
The wind passed as swiftly as it had sprung up. Ielond and Elienne stood in silent sheets of settling snow, neither one moving. At last Elienne drew a hesitant breath and spoke. “I caused that?”
Ielond nodded. “You stand within my sphere of influence, under my protection. When you resist me, even in thought, you match your polarity to that of my enemies, augmenting their strength. You provide them opening, since you are within my defenses, and through your dissent I am made vulnerable. This is why I urge you to guard your thoughts.”
Elienne stared. “Then I could have destroyed you?”
“You might yet,” said Ielond flatly. “I consider it worth the risk.”
The snowfall had thinned, relinquishing its hold on sky and landscape. Yet instead of relaxing, Ielond’s grip on Elienne tightened.
“We have been overtaken.” His tone went suddenly cold. “Whatever your sentiments, Mistress, you would be wise to hold them neutral until I am through.”
Elienne followed the Sorcerer’s eyes. Thinly veiled by the last drifting flakes, a rider stood before them, cowled in black. Decorative borders of gold threadwork adorned his neck and hood, framing features incisively lean. His hands were gloved with mail, also of gold. His mount was equine in shape, but its flesh glinted like brass newly polished. Scaled like a snake, it emanated viciousness from armored crest to spiked tail, and its master seemed possessed by the black stillness of Eternity.
“Faisix.” Ielond’s voice startled Elienne.
The rider moved. Pale lips turned upward into a thin smile. “Ielond. Is my projection that good?”
“Adequate,” said Ielond. Elienne could feel the beat of the Sorcerer’s heart through her back, and his arms tightened like a vise around her waist.
Faisix laughed, the sound like a whisper against the cold expanse of the icefields. “By that, I assume you realize I am here in flesh.”
Ielond declined answer. The laughter ceased.
“The woman is unwilling,” Faisix said abruptly. “Twice she has expressed her desire to be released from your care. I answer her call.”
“I refuse your claim,” Ielond responded. “Return whence you came.”
The thin smile repeated itself. “I have brought news from Pendaire. Would you dismiss me before you have heard? Or are you no longer interested in your royal ward?”
“There is little you could tell that I do not already know.”
Faisix crossed his arms and leaned on his mount’s neck. “Indeed? Not even the fact that, in Pendaire, Summer’s Eve is already past? Your Prince failed to meet his deadline, my friend. His seed is sterile. The Council has named him unfit for the crown and the continuance of a royal line. By its decree, the execution ceremony will occur on the morrow.”
“Why!” Elienne burst out. “Do you murder a man in Pendaire because he cannot father a child?”
Faisix transferred yellow eyes from Ielond, and, feeling his gaze upon her, Elienne was suddenly cold.
“It is custom only for Kings, Mistress.” The words were gently stated but somehow inspired no confidence. “Princes have supporters. If the crown must pass into other hands, peace must be kept. There cannot be excuse left for uprising. It is an ancient law, seldom invoked, perhaps because few Princes are born with such an unfortunate aflliction.”
“You have the justice of a toad,” said Elienne hotly, “and your councilmen have the minds of fishes. Certainly Ielond will stop this execution you speak of.”
Faisix shook his head slowly, a final smile thinning his lips. “Certainly Ielond would if he could. But my second piece of news proves otherwise. The Sorcerer known to us all as Ielond died Summer’s Eve in Pendaire.”
“Liar!” cried Elienne. The man at her back was warm, alive, and solidly real.
“Ask him,” Faisix invited. “He will tell you so.”
Elienne turned and searched the face of the Sorcerer who held her. His expression was all seams and twilit shadows, impossible to fathom.
She said, “Is it true?”
“Yes,” said Ielond. “Faisix has named my true death. He has also unwittingly brought me word of success.”
“Can dead men succeed?” gibed Faisix. “Then your Prince will succeed with you, Ielond.”
He returned his gaze to Elienne. “You called me, Mistress, and I have come. Shall you forsake that corpse’s company? Come to me. It was your desire.”
Faisix extended his hand. “Come,” he repeated. The word seemed to release a torrent within Elienne’s mind. All the confusion she had experienced since Cinndel’s death welled up at once, pressuring her to step forward, away from Ielond’s prisoning grasp.
“Be wary,” said the Sorcerer in her ear. “His promises will not be what they seem.”
Elienne gave no sign she had heard. Her face remained drawn with indecision. The small jewels that adorned her throat trembled like pale green waterdrops.
“Ielond cannot hold you.” Faisix‘s voice was honey and ice. “If he crosses your will but once in my presence, Mistress, I can destroy him for you.”
Elienne’s face drained entirely of color. “I thought you said he was dead.” Her voice shook, uncertain.
Faisix ignored the challenge. “Come to me, my Lady,” he urged, and raised one slim hand from his mount’s neck and lifted the cowl from his head. A haze of golden light bloomed under his fingers. Lean features softened and flowed as the illumination touched them, transformed the face to a gray-eyed, chestnut-headed man pleasantly proportioned.
Elienne flinched as though struck by a physical blow. She gasped aloud. “Cinndel!” Her small frame quivered with tension like a harpstring plucked by an unskilled hand.
“Come to
me, beloved,” the mounted man said softly. “Come.”
“My Lord is dead.” Elienne’s inflection was lifelessly flat. The torn, bloodied corpse she had dragged from the weapons of the Khadrach had been real enough to shatter even this skilled fantasy. Her husband’s death had been final as Eternity itself. The image on the horse mocked her with false promise. Drawing a great shuddering breath, Elienne broke.
“Mindbender!” she shouted. “Defiler! Release my husband’s likeness. You aren’t fit to wash the clothes he wore. I’ll not have you dishonor his memory with sorceries.”
Cinndel’s features unraveled, exposing the face of Faisix. Anger clothed its delicate, narrow bone structure, and the golden eyes held murder.
“Woman, still your viperish tongue,” he said, whetting his consonants with menace.
But Elienne had passed beyond caution, and the pain within her could no longer be restrained. “Beside you, the abominations of the mervine are the picture of innocence. Your presence itself is an atrocity. I would sooner welcome the foulest demon of Hell than suffer the sight of you.”
Elienne twisted in Ielond’s grasp, violently presenting her back to the subject of her insults. She buried her face in the Sorcerer’s cloak, and he, gathering her weeping body close, faced his adversary over her heaving shoulders.
“It would seem your offer has been refused,” he said quietly. “Go from this place.”
Faisix gathered the reins in his mailed fist. For a prolonged moment he sat and glared, the image of fury. At last he pointed to Elienne. “She,” he said coldly, “will regret her words through the Eye of Eternity before I am through,” and like powder blown before wind, both he and his mount dissolved, leaving the ice plain empty in the deepening shadow of night.
Ielond placed his hands on Elienne and gently pried her away from his chest.
With his eyes caught on her tear-streaked face, he said, “What in the Name of the Most Holy is a mervine?”
Elienne stared back, blank with shock. Then her thin face transformed and a broken laugh escaped her throat. “It’s a relative of the weasel.” She caught her breath. “And more properly phrased as a creature of Hell. The dominant offspring of each litter consumes its siblings at maturity. If the surviving kitten is male, it will also couple with its own mother before leaving the nest. Have you no mervine in Pendaire?”
“We have Faisix and a very corrupt Grand Council,” said Ielond. “That is share enough of the Devil’s handiwork.”
Elienne closed her eyes and shuddered. “What are we going to do about them?” Her voice still sounded strained, but there was a fresh spot of color in her cheeks, and the set to her lips proved she had spirit still in reserve.
“Ma’Diere’s Saints!” The light about Ielond’s shoulder lit his sudden smile. “We’re going to change history, my Lady, and send Faisix to his Damnation. But it cannot be done from here.”
“Then Faisix was wrong. You’ll not be dead on Summer’s Eve,” said Elienne quickly.
The Sorcerer’s smile faded at once. “Summer’s Eve in Pendaire is the locus of my true death.” His tone was suddenly clean of inflection. “Every action has its consequence, Mistress. That is one I cannot change if my Prince is to survive to claim his heirship.”
Elienne shook her head vehemently. “But if you died in Pendaire, how can you be alive in this place? Your words are like riddles, impossible to understand.”
Ielond placed an arm around Elienne’s shoulders. “Walk with me, and I’ll explain.”
Chapter 2
Icebridge by Sorcery
IELOND took a long stride forward. Imprisoned by his physical hold, Elienne had little choice but to follow. The Sorcerer had promised her understanding of facts that appeared to conflict without compromise. Worn thin by the weariness that dragged at her body and mind, Elienne resolved that such explanation had better satisfy her beyond all doubt. Life and Death by Ma’Diere’s Law were profound and final opposites. If in Pendaire the law of mortality was so fluid as to be reversible, she knew she could never endure such a place. Why seal herself in marriage to a stranger if Cinndel could be restored to life by a Sorcerer’s touch?
Ielond interrupted Elienne’s thought. “I must begin with the Prince. His fate brought us both to this place. When he was still a child, his royal parents died in a fire, and, following custom, the Grand Council of Pendaire appointed a Regent and a Guardian. The offices are separately held by law, lest a single man be tempted by his power as Regent to lessen his responsibility as Guardian.
“Faisix took the Regency of Pendaire. I was given charge of Prince Darion and his elder sister, Avelaine.”
Ielond paused. The coarse crunch of ice crystals crushed by his boot soles accentuated his silence until Elienne gave way to curiosity.
“The Prince has a sister?” she said. “Then will the girl not inherit in his stead, since the Council has ruled him unfit for the succession?”
“Avelaine is dead.” Ielond spoke abruptly, his voice suddenly roughened with grief which had slipped restraint. “An accident with a horse took her life at the age of fifteen.”
Bitterness touched the Sorcerer‘s face. “The Grand Justice himself ruled her death a mishap. Yet, Eternity witness, treachery claimed her. Avelaine could ride the black Damnation itself, had it come shaped as a horse.”
“You had no proof,” said Elienne in sudden sympathy.
“None.” Ielond fell silent again, and this time she did not interrupt. The wind sighed over the ice, chasing loose crystals ahead like sand. The scratchy whisper of their passage set Elienne’s teeth on edge. When at last Ielond resumed, the sound of his voice made her start.
“The loss of Avelaine alerted me to the possibility Prince Darion might likewise be threatened. He was then twelve years old. Every protective ward in the spectrum of White Sorcery did I cast about his person. Ofttimes the boy complained the lights of my enchantments kept him from sleep. Yet I dared not dilute the potency of my work.
“For five years the wards remained untampered. Then, the day of his seventeenth birthday, Darion returned home stripped of all protection.”
Ielond stopped in his tracks. His pale eyes seemed to stare through Elienne, and though darkness obscured his face, his words were forced as steel forged over a flame of anguish.
“The Prince’s clothes were streaked with blood. He said he had gone hunting with his cousin Jieles, and that they had made a fine kill. But he could remember nothing of the beast he chased, and his knife was clean in its sheath. His very aura rang with the reverberation of Black magic. When light was brought by my apprentice, my worst fear was confirmed. The bloodstains formed recognizable symbols, evil ones, and I knew if I probed their origin, I would find them to be the heartblood of a maid.”
Ielond’s hand tightened painfully on Elienne’s shoulder, yet she did not shrink from his touch. “Then Black Sorcery made your Prince sterile?”
“Just so,” said Ielond. “There was only one in all of Pendaire with both power and motive for such an act. Faisix of Torkal. It was he who possessed the horse that killed Avelaine. And now, if he has his way, the Grand Council of Pendaire will murder the Prince lawfully without his needing to soil his hands a second time. Jieles will assume the crown in Darion’s stead, and as ready a pawn for Faisix’s hand was never conceived in human form.”
“Could you not lift the curse, Gifted?” asked Elienne.
Ielond’s hand fell from her shoulder, and he resumed walking. “I could. But to do so I would have to transgress Ma’Diere’s Law. Only through Black Sorcery may the Prince’s affliction be reversed. The counterspell would require the death of another virgin.”
“You would be twice Damned,” said Elienne softly, and expected silence to follow her comment. But Ielond’s response was explosively swift.
“I’d suffer Damnation gladly, Mistress, if I could spare Dario
n! But my Prince forbade me permission to work the darklore. He would not have me take a maiden’s life to save his own, Eternity take his courage.”
Impulsively Elienne reached for the Sorcerer’s hand. His grasp was light, almost hesitant. Plainly, he held himself responsible for the fates of both of his wards. Elienne suddenly understood his lack of sympathy for her own grief at the loss of a husband, motivated as he was by the anguish generated by such inner guilt.
“Then you think Cinndel’s child can be passed for Darion’s own,” said Elienne at last, hoping to draw Ielond from his brooding.
The Sorcerer’s hand tightened on hers. “Yes. But it’s hardly so simply arranged. First, since I am Darion’s Guardian, it is my charge to present the Council Major with a candidate for betrothal. They, in turn, will establish the fact she is not pregnant, and virgin, by sorcery. Following their endorsement, by written law the Prince has until the end of his twenty-fifth year to get her with child. Royal marriages by tradition follow conception.”
Elienne stopped cold. Her fingers went lifeless in Ielond’s hand. “I can’t help your Prince. I wouldn’t pass a blind midwife’s examination for virginity. And you told me I carry Cinndel’s child.”
Ielond was at once clinically brisk. “Virginity can be re-created with a simple healer’s spell. As for your pregnancy, I have spent years at a stretch studying the process of conception. I have learned things about the body of a woman only Ma’Diere would remember from Her Creation. Mistress, it will be another two days before any Sorcerer in Pendaire could detect Cinndel‘s child, and that is all the time you will have to establish paternity.”
Elienne found herself trembling in the grip of fresh anger. The idea of false virginity was abhorrent, and thought of strangers, Sorcerers, scrutinizing her body made her flesh crawl. Was there no end to the indignities she might have to perform over Cinndel’s grave?
Ielond grasped her shoulder and lightly shook it. “Have a care, Mistress. Another outburst from you will bring Faisix back. I doubt we could stand against him a second time.”
