by Janny Wurts
Shocked by the depths of raw savagery held in check, Haldeth pushed abruptly to his feet. He left the library without a backward look, and proceeded straight to the smithy. There, out of anger, he lit the forge fire. While rain slashed at the windows, and the winds that heralded winter raked the roof slates, he pounded out a blade. That his hangover ached in sympathy with the ringing clang of his hammer he regarded as natural justice; for on the day his wife and his daughters had died, he had vowed he would never forge weapons.
* * *
The next day, when a third and more desperate summons arrived from the King of Faen Hallir, Korendir's acceptance was immediate. Haldeth watched the mercenary's departure from the battlements. The gleam of new steel in the sheath at his companion's side failed to thaw the smith's forgiving heart.
"Neth and grief, man, what a fool I've become," he swore, then continued for ears that could not hear. "The violence of your trade has overtaken you, I'm afraid. The gold for the wizards is an excuse. Somewhere in your quest for protection you've learned to live just to slaughter."
But by then Korendir was in the boat. The war frigate which bore the royal standard carried him south across the straits, and the days shortened relentlessly. Haldeth prepared for another northern winter. He stocked the pantries and root cellar, and sent to Heddenton for bowstrings and a matched set of crockery for the table. Then he wrought andirons for the hearth in his bedroom, and forged a new chain for the stew pot. When a freak early snowstorm caught him with shutters still open in the main hall, he did not bother to shovel out the drifts. The walls had no fine tapestries to save from mildew, and it would require more than wetting to rot the boards of Korendir's bullion chests. Haldeth hunted game and made candles and wished he had patience for reading books. He once went as far as entering the library; but the titles on the shelves haunted him with memories of a companion who no longer existed, one who had split his knuckles with the stone cutters who helped carve his hearthstone, and who had not quite forgotten how to laugh. After that the ash wood doors stayed locked.
Haldeth rolled his blankets around his tools and fared north to Heddenton, where he lived two months with a sailor's doxie. His attempt to break monotony with companionship failed miserably. The girl argued like a shrew, and finally threw him out. On the street, surrounded by an untidy clutter of belongings and staring neighbors, Haldeth found himself stripped of his pocket change and also the glass ornament he had saved from the Mhurga galley. Too embarrassed to raise an outcry for the theft, he returned to the cheerless hall at Whitestorm.
On midwinter's night, a late trader braved the northern gales to deliver a contract from Tir Amindel.
Haldeth returned the packet to the sailors as if plain parchment could burn him. "The Lord of Whitestorm is south, in service to the King of Faen Hallir. Find him there, if he's needed."
Yet storms sealed the harbors soon after; the missive with its ribbons and ducal seal moldered in the brig captain's chest until spring, when ships resumed trade to the south. Haldeth tended the empty hold with an untroubled conscience. Never once did he imagine the delay might cause more than a season of borrowed lifespan for the enemies of Tir Amindel's duke.
* * *
The days lengthened and grass sprouted green over southern meadows. Still in Faen Hallir after solving a string of inexplicable assassinations, Korendir had lingered in the king's service as advisor to the royal army, which now laid siege to the holdfast of the outlaw baron who was last autumn's proven culprit. The messenger from Marbaen port delivered a battered, salt-stained packet with the sigil of Tir Amindel to the Master of Whitestorm's campaign tent.
The dwelling within its sun-whitened canvas was neat to a fault, and the blankets on the cot unwrinkled. The inhabitant was thankfully absent. The courier left his missive by the water pitcher on the clothes chest and departed from the camp in relief. Across the kingdom the rumor was whispered that this swordsman was apt to kill if his privacy was disturbed inopportunely; at the royal palace in Faen Hallir, a gravesite existed in the servant's quarter with an epitaph that lent truth to the gossip. The mercenary from Whitestorm keep might be formidably competent, but he walked the thin edge of insanity.
Korendir returned to his tent after nightfall. He noticed the document the instant he lighted the first candle. Abruptly still, one hand clenched on his sword hilt, he scoured the shadows for movement. Although nothing stirred, he failed to relax. Still gritty with dust from the field, he drew his dagger and cracked off the seals.
The message by now was months old; the outer parchment showed the wear of many pairs of hands. Inside, elaborate state language charged the Master of Whitestorm to travel to Tir Amindel, and for a period of nine months, to serve as bodyguard for the duke's infant heir. The fee for the contract was three hundred thousand coin weight in gold.
Korendir let the parchment fall on his field pallet. With barely a pause to splash water over his face, he flung on his cloak and interrupted Faen Hallir's Lord of Armies at supper.
"I need the fastest horse from the picket lines," the mercenary demanded without apology for his precipitous entrance to the command tent.
The king's officer blotted sallow lips with his napkin. By now attuned to the Master of Whitestorm's queer temperament, he reflected that at least his meat would not have a chance to grow cold. Of all men, this one never dawdled over words. "You're going, yes? What shall I tell my liege?"
Pale and unnatural in the candlelight, Korendir's eyes never flickered. "Tell him that sieges are won on careful planning and time. I've provided the first. The last is a resource I no longer have to spare."
"I see." The Lord Commander reached for his eating knife. Warned by the sudden jerk of muscles in the man who stood opposite his table, he remembered in time to slow his hand. Gifted the king's mercenary might be, but his hair-trigger wariness was a liability the camp would be thankful to miss. "Give the Lord of Whitestorm whatever mount he chooses," the Commander barked to his aide de camp.
Korendir smiled with a gratitude that was shocking for its intensity. Then he spun on his heel and left, with the aide forced to rush to attend him.
"Neth," swore the steward who served the table. "The man's insufferable."
"Effective," amended Faen Hallir's most seasoned commander. He shook out his napkin and did not say what he truly felt. The mercenary's departure was a relief; for as he judged character, the Master of Whitestorm was inherently unstable, and no man to keep under stress on the field of war.
* * *
Korendir chose a black stud with an undying streak of viciousness toward all things two-legged and human. Its meanness fuelled an energy that burned like volcano fire, sullen and tireless and hot. Aware the brute would run on its hatred until it dropped, the mercenary spurred past the encampments of Faen Hallir's royal army. Once past the siege ditches, he reined west, on direct course for the Wastes of Ardmark.
The groom and the aide who watched shook their heads; no one rode into Ardmark unless he craved death.
"Wereleopards'll do fer him," said the groom.
"Might not." The aide looked off into darkness, where the hoofbeats diminished rapidly into distance. "Might do fer the wereleopards, that one. Want to lay odds?"
The groom laughed. "Never. Wife'd skin me if I lost. And besides, I say the stud'll win out. That snake-devil of a horse will kick the head clean off the fool's neck the minute he unsaddles to take a leak."
* * *
Three mornings after Korendir's departure, a messenger in Tir Amindel's livery made hasty appearance at the command tent. His duke had learned that the prophecy which foretold harm to his child referred to no plot, but to the misfortune of fatal disease. A bodyguard would avail nothing. The rider carried a token fee for cancellation and orders to intercept the mercenary enroute.
Interrupted from parley with his field captains, the Lord Commander met the query with exasperation. "You'll overtake that one in peril of your life. The letter from your duke arrived
late, so to save time he shortcut across the Wastes of Ardmark."
Tir Amindel's rider showed skepical astonishment. "Surely you jest."
The Commander shook his balding head. "Not about that man I don't. Your duke should be cautioned, if the mercenary arrives on his doorstep. Korendir is a killer pitched on a sure course for suicide. When he snaps, and he will, Neth help any living creature who happens to be caught within sword reach."
Nothing remained but to take a fresh horse and leave camp. Disinclined to risk death on the fangs of a wereleopard, the duke's rider took ship for Dethmark with his missive to Korendir undelivered.
Unseasonally fresh winds carried the messenger back to Tir Amindel before the mercenary. His report and his warning were received unhappily. Responsible for inconvenience to the most expensive mercenary in the Eleven Kingdoms, the duke understood that an act of courage undertaken in his behalf demanded reward in proportion to the risk. Whether a feat of insanity or not, Korendir's Ardmark crossing might cost the palace treasury half of the contracted fee; and since the first mention of wereleopards, the Lord of Tir Amindel had been vexed by the hunch that the madman would survive to claim his due.
* * *
The ferryman's smile showed broken teeth as he pointed toward the splendor of north keep gate. "Yon's the main entrance to Tir Amindel," he lisped proudly. "Bards say the water tries always to match it in reflection, but never succeeds. They say also that the stonework was laid by a sorcerer. Do you believe such?"
His sword hilt gripped tight in agitation, Korendir of Whitestorm offered no reply from his seat in the ferry's stern. He had seen wonders created by wizards in Torresdyr, and again in the court gardens of Faen Hallir. Poisoned by remembrance that some of the most beautiful could kill, he forced his gaze to linger over the city reputed to be the fairest in all the Eleven Kingdoms.
Tir Amindel did not disappoint; black and white spires and red slate roofs shone gilt-edged in sunlight, airy as a dreamer's painting on sky. The portals of the north keep gate splashed reflection across the landing on Kelharrou Lake. The city towers were indeed exquisite, but uncannily, unnaturally so, like a maid possessed.
Above the stairs from the ferry dock, an avenue of flagstone invited travelers and merchants into the city. Korendir tossed the bargeman his fare. He joined the inbound traffic with a hurried stride. Accident had killed his horse; forced to cross the mountains on foot, his arrival had been impossibly delayed.
Bronze hair and gray eyes were less rare among Tir Amindel's inhabitants, but dark, unornamented clothing was unusual enough to draw notice. An informant carried word to the duke while the mercenary summoned from Whitestorm pressed through the commerce that jammed the streets.
Unaware his welcome had been retracted, Korendir asked directions at a furrier's stall. Colonnaded galleries shaded the shops on either side, topped by statues and spires, and roof peaks crowned by crystals that splintered the light into rainbows. Although at every turn, Tir Amindel's wonders begged pause for admiration, Korendir continued as though bedevilled. He threaded between the shimmering wares of the silk merchants and hurried along Baker's Lane, untempted by freshly sugared pastries or inviting smiles from the flower maids.
The squall of a kitten stopped him short.
Trapped in a culvert with sides too steep to scale, its cries echoed in piteous contrast to the laughter of some children who had abandoned their play to watch.
Korendir frowned. "I'd not treat my pet like that."
The youngest boy removed plump fingers from his mouth. He screwed up his cheeks and giggled. A girl recognizable as his sister grinned through tears of hilarity and said, "Please. Help her out. We can't reach that far."
Oddly placed as the appeal was, Korendir lacked patience to question. He dropped prone on the pavement and reached into the dank recess.
The kitten did not wait to be caught by the scruff, but seized on the chance to escape. Korendir was clawed from wrist to shoulder before he could straighten and pluck the animal from his sleeve. On his knees in a busy street, he bit back an oath and transferred the creature into the hands of the girl.
The child smothered a giggle in the fur of the kitten's ruff. "Oh, thank you, sir!" As if on cue, her brother and all of her companions burst into shrieking laughter.
Korendir rose and brushed grit from his tunic, his brows crooked in annoyance. Tir Amindel might be fair, but its youngsters were by lengths the rudest he had encountered anywhere. He resumed his interrupted course, jogging to make up lost time.
No palace the breadth of the Eleven Kingdoms could compare with the dwelling of Tir Amindel's duke. Sea-gray marble from South Englas formed the walls, alternately banded by black and gold agate from Torresdyr; pillared embrasures held casements paned with amber glass. The levels above were cut from quartz, with galleries and catwalks and lover's nooks set under cupolas of silver. Lost to inadvertent admiration, Korendir was brought back to himself by a crushing pain in his toe. His sword was half clear of his sheath before he recovered the wits to curb his reflex.
"Your pardon, sir," said the overweight matron who had trodden on him. Most oddly, as if she had not narrowly evaded the brunt of an armed attack, her smile was accompanied by a throaty chuckle of amusement.
Caught at a loss, Korendir slammed his steel safely home in his scabbard. The threat to the ducal heir was the only concern that drove him; the eccentricities of Tir Amindel's citizens were not his trouble to unravel. He hastened on to the palace entrance, gave his name, and found himself ushered down a series of vaulted passages. Tir Amindel's artistry was not confined to facades. Korendir strode past gilded wainscoting, his steps cushioned by lushly patterned carpets. At the anteroom of the audience chamber, a liveried steward demanded that the mercenary surrender his weapons.
Korendir returned a scowl like a weatherfont. "That I do only for royalty."
The steward tapped elegant fingers across the insignia sewn on his tabard. He had been carefully instructed. "There's crisis in this city that you have taken five months to answer. Don't try the duke's patience with pointless requests to change protocol."
Unwilling to set a child's life above a salve to his ruffled dignity, Korendir folded his arms. Tersely he said, "If you want my weapons, then remove every one of them yourself."
He endured, smouldering in distaste as the servant's beringed hands roved across his person and divested him of sword, daggers, and boot knife.
"Neth, you carry an armory," grouched the steward. He stepped back in patronizing scorn and rubbed his palms as if he felt dirtied.
Korendir gave the man's contempt no response, but watched to see which of several chamber pages stepped in to take charge of his blades. He committed the boy's face to memory before the great, doubled doors swung wide, and the steward whispered instructions on the etiquette of greeting Tir Amindel's duke.
The forms proved ridiculous beyond anything Korendir had suffered in audiences before crowned sovereigns. He advanced into a room grown suddenly hushed. Steady steps carried him down a parquetry aisle that extended to the stair by the dais. Guardsmen in full armor lined the approach. Their trappings were gilded and enamelled, and their tunics of patterned silk. The courtiers behind wore brocades like peacocks; beside their splendid dress, the mercenary's black stood out like blight in a flower shop.
Precisely eight paces before the dais, Korendir dropped on one knee. He remained for a slow count of ten, then rose with his head bent in deference and requested the reigning lord for permission to raise his eyes.
"Korendir of Whitestorm, you are late." The duke's basso voice held overtones of pettish annoyance.
Eyes locked on the flooring, Korendir said, "Lord, grant me grace. Wereleopards slew my mount while crossing Ardmark, and the mishap delayed my arrival."
The duke made a sound through his nose. "To battle a wereleopard is an excusable necessity. But to defer my need by adorning your boots with fur trophies was a vain and egotistical waste of time."
A flush swept upward from Korendir's collar; prepared for instantaneous action, the duke's guardsmen shifted on their toes.
But the Master of Whitestorm only raised his head.
As his gaze met and locked with that of the ruler who met him with insult, the duke was forced to conclude that the assessment of Faen Hallir's Lord Commander was in error. Nothing could be read in the mercenary's eyes but a bleakness that disallowed pride.
"My Lord," said Korendir without insolence. "As your summons required, I am here. If my service is no longer wanted, I'll accept honor gift for past hazards and depart on the next outbound ferry."
The duke returned a shout of laughter, but no merriment prompted the sound. The Lord of Whitestorm might be crazed enough to cross Ardmark, but his instabilities did not extend so far that rudeness would serve to provoke him. His reputation for fairness spanned the Eleven Kingdoms; were he dismissed without compensation, news of shabby treatment would travel with him.
The shame to Tir Amindel could not be abided.
The duke set his fists on the lions carved into his chair posts. "Your negligence has displeased me. Since I choose not to compromise honor by duelling a bastard, I hold your free will forfeit. You were summoned to protect my heir. This you will do, according to the terms of my contract, but with one change. Should my son die before midsummer's day, his loss shall be balanced with your life."
Korendir released a sharp breath. Charged by what onlookers presumed was conceit, he delivered his word to the duke. "I accept." Then he spun without regard for the halberdiers who stationed themselves at his shoulders. Caught at a flatfooted standstill, his appointed escort marched out of stride to flank him before he passed the doors.
XVI. Ithariel's Tower
In short order the mercenary found himself posted in the ducal nursery at the bedside of a comatose infant. A strained desperation marked his manner that Faen Hallir's field commander would have recognized; Korendir moved taut as an over-wound spring that threatened to snap at any instant. His weapons had not been returned. Guards stationed outside the doorway forestalled any chance to seek the page assigned to their keeping. Although he still possessed his dirk and the dagger won from Anthei's tower concealed in sheaths at each wrist, he was distraught to be left with an empty scabbard.
