Sorcerer's Legacy

by Janny Wurts

  The sitting room stood deserted. Elienne surveyed the jumble of furnishings, then the rucked hump of carpet before the dead ash of the fireplace. The peach in her hand stayed untasted. The fact that no one had been sent to straighten the chamber struck her as oddly excessive, despite her desire to be left alone, and a fresh stab of anxiety caught her. Though famished, she abandoned the peach on a side table; left by an unknown hand, it might contain drugs, or worse.

  Elienne sighed and dragged a stuffed chair from the pile. Rose and orange against oiled wood, the fruit she had abandoned seemed to taunt her insecurity. It was probably harmless. Impulsively driven to anger, Elienne grabbed the peach and hurled it through the nearest arrowslit into the sea. War had first taught her distrust. In Pendaire, she found its harsh lesson of caution a hateful companion. Unsettled, Elienne seated herself, surrounded by the unfamiliar tang of cedar wood and salt air. The mirrowstone would provide her with a window through the uneasiness that imprisoned her.

  * * *

  The stone held an image of tiered walls of books and scrolls, racked neatly behind finely glassed, lattice cases. Darion sat, candlelit, at an oaken table, his stag tabard replaced by a gold-trimmed doublet of black. A document lay spread beneath his fingers, and a stooped, elderly gentleman hovered anxiously at his shoulder.

  “Elienne,” the Prince mused softly. “She is called Elienne.” The parchment’s seals glanced in the light as he laid it aside. Elienne recognized Ielond’s writ.

  The gentleman crowed with delighted laughter, retrieved the document, and tucked it reverently into a jeweled slip case. “Ma’Diere bless the woman! Your Grace, she must have been exceptional to have busied you to the point where you have to consult archives to find her name.”

  Apparently bemused, Darion stared at his hands. But Elienne glimpsed the concern that lingered like a shadow before he schooled his features and looked up. The morning they had shared troubled the Prince still, though he masked himself with an actor’s smooth skill.

  “My Lord Librarian, on that score, I find even memory has failed me.” The response sounded genuinely amused. Elienne found the light humor cutting because she knew it was forced.

  The Librarian chuckled. “I have lived to see you smitten, your Grace, surely as the stars turn.”

  Darion rose. The mirrowstone’s image followed him as he started toward the door. “Keep my secret, will you please?”

  He stepped into the corridor, and brass-bound panels shut firmly on the Librarian’s conspiratorial glee.

  “Demons!” The Prince’s expletive echoed down the marble hallway, and he suddenly looked tired. Ielond, I was selfish. I never allowed for the potential of simple misunderstanding to cause your Lady discomfort. Ma’Diere grant me forgiveness.

  Elienne dropped the mirrowstone as though burned, surprised to find its linking properties extended even to the thoughts the Prince directed toward her. She had not intended to eavesdrop on his private thoughts.

  Preferring to make her presence known at once, Elienne placed her finger on the mirrowstone. “My Prince, you need ask no forgiveness. My place here is little more than a lie, deserving of lies. I won’t suffer.”

  In the darkness of the hall, Darion saluted her with a smile of irony. “On that we shall see, Lady Consort. Beneath Pendaire’s glitter lies ugliness greater than you yet imagine. And our Grand Justice, you will discover, is nothing but a rude display of puppetry.”

  The pungency of the Prince’s warning reassured Elienne concerning her decision not to eat the peach. Her finger must have strayed across the mirrowstone, because Darion’s expression turned grim.

  Lady, the fruit basket is safe. I fetched it myself. His mouth thinned with annoyance as he stepped away from the library door. But you were wise not to trust until you were certain. Ma’Diere! Had I been as cautious, Nairgen’s little snare would never have placed Taroith’s integrity in question.

  Piqued by curiosity, Elienne said, “How? I’ve wondered.”

  Darion answered with open disgust. Wine, sent by Garend as condolence of Ielond’s death. He brought the gift personally, and I wasn’t quite bloody-minded enough to refuse to open it in his presence. Scruples, Ielond once said, would shape my bane.

  There was more. Elienne saw the flash of suppressed thought behind his glance. After a moment the Prince decided to share it. You may as well know. Ielond’s death also signified your arrival. I was nervous as Hell’s kittens you’d take a dislike to me. My Guardian promised me the Consort he chose would have prickles enough to shake ]ieles’s arrogance to the soles of his boots. Do you?

  Elienne burst into honest laughter, remembering the banquet. “Ask his Lordship about last night.”

  Darion grinned. Demons! I wish I hadn’t missed it.

  * * *

  The chamber of the Grand Justice was deserted at the time of Darion’s entry. Half-lit by a high row of lancet windows, the mirrowstone followed Darion’s progress across an echoing expanse of mosaic floor. Though this room was considerably smaller than the Grand Council Hall she had visited the day before, Elienne saw the decor was equally opulent. Dark, paneled balconies overhung a lower level, centered by a dais. The Prince steered a course through the maze of spooled railings and stuffed brocade chairs that crowded the chamber at floor level. The image flickered and dimmed as he passed under the shadow of the far balconies, then stepped through a narrow door into darkness.

  The mirrowstone’s image pooled like ink. Elienne heard the faint creak of wood as Darion seated himself to wait. He intended to observe the proceedings for a time before he made his presence known, so that his own strategy could be timed to best advantage. Elienne spent the interval sampling the fruit basket’s contents. When she next consulted the mirrowstone, Darion was newly visible, silhouetted against a narrow square of illumination. Beyond the door of the cubicle where he sat, servants could be seen lighting the wall sconces in preparation for Taroith’s trial.

  Elienne returned to her chair by the arrowslit and looked out. The hazy band of a fog bank had erased the sea’s horizon. Though blue sky and sunlight shone fair over the castle’s towers, Pendaire’s coastal location made it a land victimized by changeable weather. Elienne studied the brooding, gray curtain of what surely ordained a squall, ears filled with the seethe of current over the rocks below. She wished a fire still burned in the hearth. It had been a mistake not to ask Darion for a maid.

  In the chamber of Pendaire’s Grand Justice, notables had begun to gather. Elienne leaned over the mirrowstone and tried to pick out faces amid the mottled patches of color that moved on the dais, but the image was far too small for details. She used the link to communicate her frustration to Darion.

  Faisix is there, the one in the Regent’s robes of gold, white, and black. The red sleeves denote his own house of Torkal. He will preside, today, over the Grand Judge, since the case is treason against the crown. The Grand ]udge wears the white and silver; signifying impartiality. The third member of the tribunal which heads the Grand Justice is a Master. Emrith, the Sorcerer in green at Faisix’s left hand, will verify the truth of testimony, as necessary. Unfortunately for us, he was Ielond’s most outspoken critic.

  Elienne put her finger on the mirrowstone and mentally assumed the memory of the Sorcerer who had directed the flat, impersonal stare upon her at the betrothal banquet.

  He’s the one, Darion sent. The row immediately opposite the dais holds those who will testify. Garend and Kennaird are there. Listen closely, they’re starting.

  Faintly Elienne heard the tap of the Regent’s scepter. The distant hum of background conversation subsided as Faisix rose and began the opening ceremony. Yet he did not retire after the closing line. The mirrowstone reflected Darion’s sudden uneasiness, and Elienne understood the Regent’s additional speech was a departure from strict custom.

  “Your Lordships, honored members of the Collective, Excellenci
es, I ask your attention this moment for an appeal.” The raw conviction of the words carried clearly, even across the mirrowstone’s tenuous link. “We are gathered today to pass judgment upon a member of the Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council, at a moment of grave and imminent uncertainty. Until the royal succession is assured, we are a kingdom in peril, vulnerable through our lack of definitive sovereignty. I beg all of you to examine the accused’s case with extreme care, that the verdict not be influenced by the concern we all share for our Prince. If treason has been committed against His Grace, let us face it untempered by emotion. I personally hope Taroith proves innocent. Through his years of Mastership, I believe he has served the crown faithfully and well. By Ma’Diere’s Grace, I would be pleased to grant an acquittal, and commend him to more of the same.”

  A low murmur swept the chamber as Faisix returned to his chair. Elienne swore savagely, the mirrowstone heated as a coal in her hand by the resonance of the Prince’s anger. A court herald began to cite the charges of treason and conspiracy, but the list was obliterated by the thought Darion directed through the link.

  Cleverness has always hallmarked our Regent’s style. The accumulated evidence will condemn all the more swiftly by contrast after that brazen show of idealism. How I long to break that facade.

  The chamber quieted as the Grand Judge called for the accused to be brought before the Tribunal. Bent intently over the mirrowstone, Elienne saw Taroith’s entry as a blur of gray flanked by the black and gold surcoats of guardsmen. His soulfocus was either absent or dimmed to the point where it could not be seen through the mirrowstone.

  The herald’s recitation was overlaid immediately by a strong surge of outrage from Darion. They’ve fettered him. Damn them to Eternity, they’ll soon regret that piece of foolishness.

  A Master’s word, Elienne understood, was a bond after which the steel was an insult. The Prince’s fury bored through the interface with tangible force, but the visual image of his person showed only flawlessly calm restraint. Darion made a formidable opponent, Elienne observed, suddenly glad her quick temper had not had the chance to alienate him.

  The court will now hear testimony in defense of Taroith’s innocence, Darion sent, in answer to Elienne’s ignorance of procedure. Then the opposing case will be set forth, after which the accused may speak in his own behalf. The Tribunal then calls for a vote from the Collective gathering, the result of which counts as one, followed by a vote of equal weight cast by each member of the Tribunal. Three to one, guilty, and Taroith is condemned. A tie demands a second hearing.

  Elienne listened with impatience through the two elders who spoke in Taroith’s behalf. They lectured in broadly general terms on the Sorcerer’s good character, and briefly listed charitable causes he had championed. The Collective fretted in their chairs. Kennaird’s statement was badly weakened by his nervous delivery, and his description of Taroith’s visit to Nairgen’s cottage was heard through an atmosphere of restless disbelief.

  “Taroith acted in his Grace’s best interests,” the apprentice said, over a rising barrier of background conversation. Lamely he took his seat.

  The Regent formally closed the defense proceedings. Garend stood to contest Taroith’s innocence, and by contrast, his presentation proceeded with devastating directness. Kennaird’s claim that Darion had been drugged was dismissed as fabrication. Tales of his Grace’s drunken stupor had widely taken hold, and fact corroborated that Darion had spent the hours following Ielond’s death alone in his chambers. The men-at-arms who had stood guard duty outside the royal apartments attested, under oath, that the only visitor had been Garend. The Prince himself had seen the Sorcerer to the door upon his departure. Emrith verified the truth of their account.

  “So you see,” Garend concluded softly, “this mention of drugs is the product of an unsettled mind.”

  The attempted rape of the Prince’s Consort and its aftermath unfolded with damning simplicity. The story was received with horrified surprise. Elienne felt her stomach knot. Faisix played the questions with deadly precision, tuning the Collective to a clamor of outraged animosity against Taroith.

  The Grand Judge finally had to call for order. “Your Lordships! The subject is distressing, but I implore you, maintain your objectivity.”

  The crowd subsided reluctantly. The chamber stilled as the Grand Judge at last called for the accused to speak before the court. A hush of anticipation fell as Taroith rose to his feet. The rattle of the chain savaged the silence.

  “Your Lordships, Excellencies of the Tribunal,” Taroith began, so quiet, Elienne had to strain to hear, “I deny all charges of conspiracy against the crown.”

  The Collective shouted in protest. Faisix stood and forcefully demanded order. Elienne shivered, sweat chilling on her body as, beyond the arrowslit, fog extinguished the sun with the stealth of a strangler.

  “Gentlemen!” Faisix’s rebuke cut across the chaos and restored a semblance of calm. “I remind you of the Law, which grants the accused the right to be heard before this court.” Flax-colored hair glinted as he nodded for Taroith to continue.

  “I thank you, Excellency.” Arid with irony, Taroith pitched his next words solely for Faisix’s ears. “I have only now come to appreciate the virtues of our late Guardian.” Elienne, bent over the mirrowstone, was impressed by Taroith’s quiet dignity. “Had I known the extent of your influence, as Ielond did these past years, I could not have held myself as silent. You will perhaps succeed in having me executed to preserve your intentions from public exposure. The risk to you is minimal, ultimately. What is another score against your soul, when already you stand thrice damned before Ma’Diere?”

  “A conspirator’s words carry little weight,” Faisix said. “You waste time.”

  Taroith bowed. “I am not yet sentenced, Excellency. But I have no need to expose you. Ielond has worked your demise already.”

  Faisix’s expression could not be read through the mirrowstone’s tiny image. Yet his composure seemed unruffled as the Sorcerer once more faced the Collective and lifted his voice before the Grand Justice.

  “Written Law allows for one accused of treason to have another speak in his behalf. I ask the Prince I have allegedly betrayed to come forward and plead my case.”

  The request was answered by laughter from Garend. “Master Taroith, I fear your cause will remain uncontested,” the Elder said smugly. “His grace retired to his apartments early this morning, and specified that he was not to be disturbed.”

  The Prince rose quietly. Elienne applauded his choice of timing as he stepped to the door. The lighted chamber visible through the mirrowstone widened as he passed through.

  Oblivious to the royal presence, Garend continued, “I spoke with Darion’s chamber page. His illness, and his night with his Consort, left him badly indisposed.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Garend.”

  Heads turned. The Prince of Pendaire stepped from the shadow of the galleries behind the dais, the understated sobriety of his dress accenting his restored health. The Tribunal twisted in their chairs for a better look.

  “Has this court lowered itself to the point where it will weigh even the gossip of servants?” A rustle of whispers followed Darion’s progress up the dais stairs.

  In the tower, Elienne’s knuckles whitened on the mirrowstone, and rain pattered, unnoticed, through the open shutters onto the parquet at her feet.

  The Prince stopped at the accused’s side. “Contrary to opinion, I did not waste the morning in illness. Instead, I saw fit to question Helein, the wife of our deceased healer.” He paused and regarded a chamber taut with expectancy. “She told me, Lordships, Excellencies, the one fact her husband beat her to keep silent. She will attest, under truth examination if you like, that Nairgen was shape-changed to my image immediately following announcement of Ielond’s death. The man the guardsmen saw with Garend at the door was an impostor. At th
at time I was unconscious from drugged wine.”

  A loud murmur swelled the room, cut by Garend’s protest. “Unconsciousness may be caused by wine alone, your Grace.”

  Darion’s clean laughter dispelled an ominous silence. “Whether I was overcome with spirits or not bears little on this case, Lordship. Don’t grasp at straws. You had Nairgen shape-changed to provide you with an alibi so that I could be left senseless without suspicion.”

  “You have no proof.”

  Above, on the dais, the Grand Judge leaned forward, suddenly rapt. Faisix sat motionless at his side.

  Darion’s reply held the sheered edge of self-righteous anger. “You are wrong, Garend. Ielond left my Consort a mirrowstone interfaced to provide communication with my person. Lady Elienne witnessed a scarred hand placing a cloth with a sleep potion to my face during an attempt to rouse me through contact. Examination of Nairgen’s corpse will reveal the selfsame scar.”

  Garend sank back, deflated, but Elienne was more interested in the Regent’s expression of startled calculation. The mirrowstone had been a surprise to him, she realized, and to the court as well, by the tumult of talk that burst forth.

  The Grand Judge pounded for order. Yet it was Darion’s call for silence that finally calmed the uproar.

  “I will reconstruct what actually occurred,” said the Prince, “but not before Taroith’s fetters are struck.”

  “He has not been acquitted yet, your Grace.” Faisix spoke with the patience of a parent admonishing a child.

  “Since when do we bind a Master of the League?”