Synopsis
After three years of studying with the Empress Bykoda, Jemeryl has learned all that the elderly sorcerer can teach her and is ready to return to Lyremouth. However, before she leaves, Bykoda reveals a grim secret—an oracle of death—and asks her to perform one final assignment. Jemeryl must take Bykoda's talisman to a place of safety. Failure will mean complete destruction not only in the present, but also the past.
While in Tirakhalod, Tevi has been working as an officer in Bykoda's army. It has been a difficult time for her, living in a land where those who cannot work magic are treated as insignificant. Only Jemeryl's love has made life bearable. With the return to the Protectorate drawing close, she hopes that the worst is over. However, somebody is after the talisman, and that person is willing to commit murder to get what they want.
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By the Author
Wolfsbane Winter
THE LYREMOUTH CHRONICLES
The Exile and the Sorceror
The Traitor and the Chalice
The Empress and the Acolyte
The High Priest and the Idol
THE CELAENO SERIES
The Walls of Westernfort
The Temple at Landfall
Rangers at Roadsend
Dynasty of Rogues
Shadow of the Knife
The Empress and the Acolyte
© 2006 By Jane Fletcher. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-354-9
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition, November 2006
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Cindy Cresap and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: J. Barre Greystone
Cover Image: Tobias Brenner (http://www.tobiasbrenner.de/)
Cover Design: Julia Greystone
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank everyone at Bold Strokes Books especially Cindy, Rad, and Stacia for giving me help and support when I needed it, and for standing back and giving me free rein when I didn’t.
I’d also like to thank everyone at the Milford Writer’s group for their suggestions and comments about the early sections of this book.
Dedication
For Lizzy—Still
Foreword—Empires and Anarchy
Magic changes everything
The rare individuals who could directly access the higher dimensions had dictated the history of the world. These workers of magic perceived more than the four normal dimensions of time and space known by the ungifted majority, and thus could manipulate their surroundings in ways that seemed as mystical and unstoppable to the rest of the population as a sighted archer might seem in the world of the blind.
A witch was someone who was aware of just one or two para-normal dimensions. Maybe one person in every hundred might claim this title. Far more uncommon were sorcerers, who could perceive all three paranormal dimensions, including the paradoxical second aspect of time—the realm of soothsayers and oracles.
Nobody knew why some were born with these gifts. Whatever the cause, it did not lie in heredity. Children of the most powerful sorcerer were no more likely to be gifted with magic than those of a common shepherd. And therein lay the source of the chaos that sorcerers had inflicted on the world.
Their powers were vast. One sorcerer, acting alone, could carve out an empire, sweeping aside whatever small culture the ungifted had painstakingly built. Cities and civilisations were created by sorcerers’ paranormal abilities, and all fell back to anarchy on their deaths. No empire lasted longer than one generation.
These empire-building sorcerers were as diverse as their empires. Some were tyrants who enslaved entire regions. Some were motivated by concern for others and sought only to enhance the well-being of their people. Some were decadent parasites who exerted no control over their lands other than to claim tribute.
Yet even the worst of these empires were remembered fondly by most of their subjects as a time of stability and safety; a time when a powerful protector kept all other dangers away; a time when a farmer might sow a field with the expectation of harvesting it.
What other option was there? Ordinary, ungifted people could not hope to resist even a witch. Without the structure of empire, what chance was there of ordinary workers gaining any reward from their daily labour? Living by one person’s rules was better than living by no rules at all.
Only the founding of the Coven broke this cycle of empire and anarchy, and only for the lands under its control, the Protectorate. On the death of the great philosopher sorcerer Keovan of Lyremouth, his acolytes formed their alliance under an elected leader—the Guardian—and invited other sorcerers and witches to join them. To the ordinary folk of the surrounding region they offered protection in return for the payment of taxes.
For four and a half centuries, the Coven grew in size and power. The territory that it controlled expanded also, by consent rather than invasion. The order and security offered by the Coven was an attractive lure, and bordering territories petitioned to join. In time, the Protectorate of Lyremouth came to dwarf the overnight empires of lone sorcerers.
Like any human institution, the Protectorate was not perfect, but it was generally benign and just. Guilds could manage their own affairs. Ungifted citizens had rights under the law. Folk might grumble at the taxes and distrust the autocratic sorcerers, yet—uniquely in the history of the world—they lived their lives in peace and prosperity, with the hope that their children and grandchildren might do the same.
The advantages of the Protectorate for ungifted citizens were clear, but what inspired sorcerers to join? Why abide by the laws of the Coven, working to the orders of the Guardian, when they could live outside its rule and take whatever they wanted from defenceless ungifted folk?
The answers to this question were also as diverse as the sorcerers themselves. Some were unworldly scholars, eager for the chance to study with others who saw the world in all its multi-dimensional complexity. Some were motivated by moral standards and took satisfaction from working for something that would benefit people for centuries to come. Some had ambitions to rise through the Coven hierarchy and one day have hundreds of powerful sorcerers under their rule.
Or, as with Jemeryl, it could be a case of all three to varying degrees, dependant on what mood she was in that day.
Part One
The Empress
Chapter One—An Oracle of Death
Nails clawed into the tabletop, fighting for grip. The fingers clenched, slowly and laboriously inching the arm forwards. A moment of rest, and then once again the fingers reached out. At the other end of the forearm, where the elbow should have been, loose tendrils of skin dragged across the wooden surface.
Two women stood by the table, watching the sluggish progress. The warm glow of a fire competed with dim light from the leaden sky outside. The only sounds were the crackle of flames and the rain beating against the window. The stone castle walls and thick hanging tapestries
blocked out all else.
The younger woman by far was Jemeryl, oathbound sorcerer of the Coven at Lyremouth, still in her mid twenties. Her eyes were fixed in concentration on the animate arm, but her angular features held an impish grin. Light from the flames accentuated the hint of red in her curly auburn hair.
“You know, I think it’s going to work.” Jemeryl’s voice reflected her satisfaction.
“But are you still sure it’s a good idea?”
The elder woman turned away and wandered back to her seat by the hearth. Her shrunken body was swallowed by the mound of cushions. Firelight glittered on the gemstones on her fingers and the gold embroidery decorating her robe. It etched deep lines on her face. The wisps of fine white hair on her forehead were almost invisible in the flickering shadows.
Jemeryl raised her eyes to her companion, the Empress Bykoda. “Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”
Although the two sorcerers had worked together for many months, Jemeryl knew that the Empress did not share her own enthusiasm for the project. In fact, Bykoda’s motives for assisting at all were something that still caused her considerable puzzlement.
Jemeryl returned her attention to the disembodied arm. She picked it up and flipped it back and forth, examining it from both sides. The fingers jerked and flailed about, spider-like, until she made a sharp, cutting gesture above it. Immediately, it ceased to twitch, ceased even to maintain its shape. The object in Jemeryl’s hand hung limp, like a half-stuffed stocking. She treated it to a final moment of consideration, then dumped it on the table and also took a seat by the fire.
Bykoda tilted her head. “You haven’t had second thoughts? You think it will really benefit your ungifted citizens back in the Protectorate?”
“Only those who’ve been unfortunate enough to lose an arm or a leg.”
“Unfortunate or foolish?”
“Either.”
“Might it not make warriors reckless knowing that if they lose a limb your Coven sorcerers will make them a replacement from resin?”
“In my experience, warriors don’t feel that indifferently about what happens to their bodies. Keeping themselves in one piece is a major preoccupation because they’re always being confronted by people who want to slice them into bits.”
“I’ll take your word on it. I admit that I’ve never spent much time bothering about what’s going on in their heads.”
“I’ve got Tevi to keep me well informed on the subject,” Jemeryl said lightly.
“Your lover? Yes, I suppose you must talk sometimes.”
Jemeryl faltered briefly, caught out by Bykoda’s pensive tone. Had the Empress never previously considered the idea that she and Tevi might speak to each other? “Um...yes, her. Knowing Tevi so well helps me see that the ungifted aren’t very different from you and me.”
“And have you never got yourself into an awkward spot because you were overconfident? I wonder if your ungifted warriors might do the same, especially as they won’t understand the limitations of the resin.”
Jemeryl shrugged. “They’ll know that they can’t get a replacement head, which should stop them from getting careless. Plus, the ordinary citizens don’t trust sorcerers enough to want to rely on us more than they have to.”
“You just said they weren’t so different from us.”
“Do you trust things you don’t understand?”
Bykoda gave a laugh. “I don’t understand why you’re bothered about your citizens’ health. But I take it on trust that you are.”
“Then just trust that it will be another success to report when I go back, which will make my seniors happy.”
Trying to explain was not worth the effort. Jemeryl just grinned and slipped down in her chair, stretching her feet towards the fire. Her casual pose was one of contentment as she considered the successful conclusion of her mission. For over two and a half years she had been a guest at the castle of Tirakhalod, learning as much as Bykoda was willing to teach. The initial invitation came as a surprise, both to Jemeryl and her superiors in the Coven at Lyremouth. Not everyone had been convinced that the isolated Empress would have anything to teach a Coven-trained sorcerer.
Jemeryl however, had been less arrogantly assured of Coven superiority. Admittedly, the Coven’s longevity had allowed it to amass vast knowledge and experience. Its libraries held the collected discoveries of thousands of sorcerers. Whereas Bykoda’s realm was typical of the normal run of the world. She had built the Empire by herself, using nothing but her own abilities. Her magic lacked framework and support.
To Jemeryl, many of Bykoda’s greatest problems were trifling. Bygone Coven sorcerers had long since found the solutions. But in other places, the originality of Bykoda’s work was breathtaking. The need to survive had driven her. Every crisis she had overcome by her skill alone. She had been inventive and ruthless, sometimes in ways that did not fit well with Jemeryl’s Coven-born ethics. But Jemeryl was not there to offer censure or support and, to her mind, the knowledge that she would be taking back justified her presence. Bykoda would have done the same regardless, and at least the Protectorate citizens would now benefit.
A while passed before Bykoda spoke again. “In all the time you’ve been here and seen what the Empire has to offer, the challenges, the freedom, no rules, not having to answer to anyone, has your commitment to the Protectorate weakened?”
Jemeryl shook her head. “Not at all.”
“It’s ironic.” Bykoda’s tone was serious, even rueful. “When I invited you here, it was partly because I was certain you wouldn’t want to take over my Empire. Now I find myself wishing that you would.”
“You...what?”
“That day we first talked, I had just learnt that my latest attempt to deal with a certain problem had failed. You asked about the animate resin, how it was done, and I thought it would be a good excuse to get you here. That’s why I offered you the chance to study with me here in Tirakhalod. I thought you...” Bykoda sighed and made a vague gesture with one hand.
“You thought I could solve your problem?”
“Not quite. But I thought that you might be useful if no other solution was found.”
“It...I...” Jemeryl broke off in confusion. “What is the problem?”
Bykoda gave a wry grimace. “You don’t like oracles, do you?”
“No.” Jemeryl paused. “Can I assume you’ve had a foretelling of something that you don’t want to happen?”
“You could say that. In eight months’ time, I’m going to be murdered.”
Jemeryl needed a few stunned seconds to regain her voice. “Yes. I can see that you might be a little upset about that. Um...do you have any ideas how, or why?”
“The how is some form of magical attack that I haven’t identified precisely. As for why”— Bykoda gave a shrug—“hopefully just revenge by someone I’ve annoyed, or an upstart sorcerer planning on usurping my Empire.”
“There could be worse reasons?”
“Oh yes. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
*
Tevi hugged close to the base of the cliff and looked up. One hundred feet of sheer rock face hung above her. Battlements lined the top, and directly overhead, the watchtower rose higher still. At her feet, the river lapped around her boots. Once the spring rains came, the spot where she stood would be deep underwater, but for now, Tevi could just squeeze by between rocks and river as long as she did not mind getting her feet wet.
The sounds of battle drowned out all else: the crackle of lightning and boom of explosions, and below them, quieter, human voices raised in screams and shouts. Yet, thankfully, none of it was on Tevi’s side of the fort.
The stronghold was built atop rocks overlooking a bridge. Triangular in shape, with river-eroded cliffs on two sides, the fort made the most of the defensive potential of the site. Only on the third, landward side could it be assailed by an army. Its purpose was to guard the bridge against any who might seek to strike at Tirakhalod, and in addi
tion to its natural defences, the Empress’s powerful magic was imbued in the stone to proof it against paranormal attack—which was more than a touch unfortunate when the fort was being held by a detachment of renegades.
A junior officer witch, a lieutenant, had deserted, taking her troops with her. Commander Ranenok himself had led the force sent to apprehend the deserters before they could cause more havoc. When the fleeing lieutenant realised that she could not avoid a battle, she had bluffed her way into the fort and taken it over. Even so, with all the resources of Bykoda’s Empire against her, one lone lieutenant could not win, and she must have known it, yet obviously she was determined to put up a fight. Tevi’s task was to bring that fight to as quick an end as possible, with the maximum number of loyal troops left alive.
Ranenok’s current assault on the landward side was a diversion, and it seemed to be working. No arrows or other missiles had come Tevi’s way as she had snuck along the riverbank. Yet the defenders’ oversight was not particularly reckless or negligent. Despite the low water level, the route was not passable for a force large enough to launch a serious attack on the fort. For any ordinary fighter, climbing the cliff would be daunting when not wearing armour, impossible with it. And as Jemeryl had frequently pointed out, even sorcerers did not find flying a viable method of transport.
However, Tevi was not a completely ordinary fighter. The potion she had taken during childhood granted her magically enhanced strength, easily sufficient to tackle the climb while wearing a thick leather cuirass, carrying a sword, and with a shield strapped to her back. Her upbringing on the Western Isles, collecting eggs from the nests of seabirds, had also given her experience of scaling sheer rock faces and a good head for heights.
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