by Janny Wurts
Korendir struggled to rise, to follow Ithariel's liberated colleagues toward safety. But his legs buckled. His silly, useless flesh had no strength left, and tripped by his forgotten sword, he tumbled headlong into a fall. He thrashed, aware of his lady's entreaties to rise; but his struggles only drove him deeper into darkness. Faintly, through someone's cries of rage, he heard Ithariel call his name
XXV. Last Summons
Korendir's next sensation was that of being caught by a pitiless force and dragged back into himself. He exclaimed in pain, then choked off the cry as he fully recovered awareness. His head hurt and his eyes stung, seared by too much brightness.
"Merciful Neth, we have him back," said a cracked and reedy voice.
The light, which proved to be common candleflame, withdrew.
Korendir discovered with some discomfort that he lay on the sigil-carved floor in the Archmaster's tower. In his weakness he was surrounded by the dust-grimed faces of a revived Council Major. Clean as a new pearl by contrast, and still clad in her nightrobe, Ithariel cradled his head between her hands. The oldest of the enchanters hovered at her shoulder, alert and bright-eyed as a fighting rooster. Orame crouched alongside, kneading salve into Korendir's palms, which were ghastly white with frostbite.
The Master of Whitestorm struggled in protest against such a surfeit of attention and managed to ease the shoulder pressed into cramps against the carvings. The moment he reliably mustered breath, he tried speech. His voice emerged as a scratched whisper that revealed, to his shame, that between his downfall and Ithariel's recovery, he had accomplished a great deal of screaming. Flushed red, he forced his words out anyway. "Orame, have you checked on your tower lately?"
The enchanter crossed his wrists across his knee and looked thoughtful. "No," he said at last. "Should I?" And his head tilted as if he listened to something far distant.
Then his dark brows peaked and his gaze sharpened in vexation upon Korendir. "The Heddenton guard is attempting to pound in my gate with a fir log! Whatever you did, my friend, those meddling townsfolk took it badly."
Orame stood. The tin of salve fell rattling across floorboards as he vanished through a wizard's gate, presumably to defend his beleaguered tower.
An enchantress knelt to retrieve the medicine, but Korendir gave in to restlessness. He freed himself from Ithariel's hands, sat up before the nursing could continue, and stared at his lacerated palms. Behind his expressionless facade raged an anger he no longer had reason left to bridle.
Ithariel had nearly come to harm through the vulnerabilities of the White Circle that had disowned her. The Master of Whitestorm regarded eighteen impassive wizards, prepared to vent outrage should even one of them speak of risks undertaken without safewards.
Yet the council did not raise the issue of purloined crystals, or dimensional gates left unguarded; the eldest strove instead to make amends. "The White Circle owes you debt, my Lord of Whitestorm. To dare the perils of the otherworld was a consummate act of courage. Telvallind Archmaster would have been forced to show gratitude, had he survived. In his memory, past sanctions against your lady shall be reversed. I think the others will support me in offering the training due the son of High Morien."
Suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of half the major wizards in Aerith, the acknowledged heir to Alathir pushed to his feet. No longer quite so guarded, he straightened a mantle left rucked with burrs like a dog's coat; if he chose, he had won the right to keep the tallix which hung at his neck.
The enchantress who still held the salve touched his shoulder in gentle encouragement. "Your accomplishment is celebrated on more than this side of the void. The gate you left open stayed unbreached because even the inhabitants of Alhaerie were driven into hiding by the Valjir. Its demise has freed both worlds, Korendir."
Yet to the surprise of every enchanter present, the Master of Whitestorm shook his head. "That's not what makes me hesitate." He drew a difficult breath.
"What will happen," he began, and broke off, defeated by a hint of unsteady laughter. He glanced at his wife and tried again. "If I accept training, who would be reckless enough to help the next time enchanters fall tranced like a bunch of corpses? I think for the future I'll be content to leave spell-craft to my wife."
The surrounding Council Major heard his refusal with smiles; even Whitestorm's lady did not spare him. Something about the quality of her joy set Korendir desperately near to the breakdown that had threatened him since Heddenton.
The eldest enchanter spoke still; at a jab in the ribs that certainly had been copied from Megga, Korendir belatedly listened.
"The solution is obvious, my friend," the spokesman for the wizards concluded. "Morien's inheritance must be awarded to the heir forthcoming to Whitestorm."
While the rest of the council voiced agreement, Korendir spun with a swordsman's poise, then spoiled all grace by staring open-mouthed at his wife. He recalled the star-like presence half-glimpsed in the interval before spirit reintegrated with flesh. "You?" he said, astonished.
Ithariel nodded, crying now with a happiness that hurt to witness. "I conceived you a son," she admitted. "But you weren't meant to hear until the night of midsummer festival."
Korendir recovered with such lack of ceremony that all in the chamber raised eyebrows. Then he threw restraint to the winds, shouted, and scooped his wife in his arms. "How did you ever bribe Megga to keep quiet?"
Ithariel hooked his chin in her palm. "Jewels, lots of them. The ones left over from South Englas. Nixdax will never in a century admit it, but a dwarf will do anything for riches."
* * *
Winter came, and Callin, heir to the fortress on White Rock head, was born during a diamond fall of snow. The King of Dunharra sent a charter officially acknowledging the domain of Whitestorm, and Nixdaxdimo celebrated by sounding his dwarf pipes from the watchtower. The music was created on a contraption of drilled horn and skins, and noisy as caterwauling beasts. Haldeth's apprentices determined the din an offense. They fetched out short bows and fired off volleys of blunted shafts, until the screeches from Nix grew obscene enough to be differentiated from his instrument. Resignedly the smith emerged to collar the boys.
Peace settled over the courtyard of Whitestorm keep, but only momentarily. Callin had lungs at least the equal of Nix's pipes, and no reservations about using them.
"Neth, he's as stubborn as his father," Ithariel murmured sleepily from the bed.
Korendir left off pacing the rug and sat down lightly on the mattress. He smoothed the blankets over his wife, then regarded the yelling infant in her arms. A mouth unaccustomed to softness melted into a smile. "You know, my promise to you is unsatisfied."
"What?" Ithariel paused in the task of loosening her bedgown.
Her husband reached across and helped with the unfastening of laces. When their son subsided to suck, he replied. "I said I'd never rest until we'd got a daughter between us."
Wind gusted outside and snowflakes rattled across the leaded window. Ithariel leaned in contentment against her husband's black-clothed side. "You have a delightful memory for details." Mischief lit her eyes. "But I'll lay you a wager. You'll sleep very little for the next six months, and not for conception of any daughter."
"One little imp will prevent that?" Korendir stroked the reddish fuzz that sprang from Callin's crown. He matched his wife's gaze with delight of his own, and capped her irresistible challenge. "I'll swap your wager for another. By autumn, I say you'll be widening the waists of your dresses."
Ithariel scowled at her newly flattened middle. "You randy goat! If I win, will you give up black tunics?"
"Assuredly." Korendir seemed taken aback. "You hate my favorite color that much?"
"Oh, get out!" laughed Ithariel. "Dark clothing makes you look like a carrion crow. Take that gray stallion for the gallop you've longed for all night, and leave me in care of my women."
"Maybe I will." Korendir bent. He kissed his wife and young child, then rose wit
h the killer's coordination that never entirely left him.
A draft swirled through the door as he departed. Slapped by a breath of cold, Ithariel shivered; jostled by her start, Callin lost his grip on the nipple and began to wail. His cry brought both midwife and maid to the bedside, and with coaxing his distress soon subsided.
But for some ominous and inexplicable reason, Ithariel could not think past midsummer without feeling inwardly chilled.
* * *
Yet the seasons passed over White Rock Head and brought no winds of ill fortune; the days of golden sunshine lingered. Young Callin rattled the toys his father made from shells. He pulled his mother's hair, plucked at Nixdax's nose, and gave Megga equal measure for provocation. The dwarf wife spoiled the boy without shame, then made up the lapse by increasing her slangs at Nix. The henpecked husband took refuge beneath the worktable in Haldeth's forge, and as his visits became frequent, the smith suggested building a chair there. Nix replied with curses, but showed up the next day with cushions filched from the apprentice's cots.
"They spend their nights fighting anyway," he declaimed when the boys came inquiring at dusk. Haldeth withdrew before the shouting turned into a scrap; when the boys chose to set aside differences, they were practiced at trouncing dwarves. The pillows returned to the loft with half their stuffing missing, and for weeks Haldeth could not lift a tool without batting at disturbed drifts of feathers.
Ithariel announced her second conception as the days began to shorten. No longer restricted from use of power, she admitted when pressed that the forthcoming child would be female. Korendir laughingly wore blue through the next fortnight to console her for losing their wager.
"You give me far better than I deserve," he admitted in the dark when they were alone. "A daughter's the best thing I could wish for."
But autumn came, and on the morning the ship sailed in flying the flags of a foreign envoy, Whitestorm's master reverted to his customary black.
The arrival by itself was not unusual. Couriers periodically brought offers from kings, and lords, and once a disgruntled royal nephew who disputed the succession in Dunharra. Without exception, the appeals met with refusal. Although it was known that the mercenary no longer took contracts, the most persistent petitioners came anyway.
Korendir treated the latest pair as he had each one of their predecessors. A signal arrow fired from the battlements offered them Whitestorm's hospitality, and at slack tide Haldeth went down to usher the guests to the keep.
The pair who waited on the beachhead could not have been nearer to opposites. Swarthy and clothed in royal finery, the taller was not yet twenty. He wore a fillet of jade-studded gold, silk robes, and a belt bossed with gems that was going to fascinate Nixdax. Haldeth took note of the other, who was wiry and small and much older. His leather tunic was edged with fur, and dyed in whorled patterns. Creamy fair skin bore similar tattoos, and the cap jammed aslant on salt-and-pepper hair was crested with the feathers of skyshears. Hawks with scarlet plumage were rare, their eyries only found in mountainous lands to the east.
The boy straightened haughtily in his finery. The man who had greeted him was not wearing livery, but neither did he carry badge of rank. "Salutations to the Lord of Whitestorm from my father, the King of High Kelair," the prince said noncommitally.
Haldeth returned the bow of a master craftsman. "Welcome to Whitestorm, Your Grace. Lord Korendir awaits you in his library. Kindly follow me."
The smith led the ascent of the stairs. At his back, the prince and his mountain-born escort conversed in heavily burred dialect. Haldeth caught phrases of admiration, a reference concerning a tournament, and wagers that somebody had lost. Then he stepped from the gloomy stairwell into a flood of fall sunlight.
The prince and his companion emerged blinking.
Nixdaxdimo peeped out from the forge, saw the strangers in the bailey, and slammed the door with a yelp.
The mountain born squinted in the direction of the disturbance. "You keep a dwarf servant?"
"Not a slave," Haldeth said quickly. "Nix swore free service to a White Circle enchantress, but he's a pest most always nonetheless."
The red-feathered cap bobbed agreement. "So say the foremen at the mines. Trouble dwarves are, but they don't sicken with underground labor like humans. For that, the unscrupulous continue to trap. But my clan shares no part in such cruelty."
Haldeth shrugged. "By now, Nix will be crammed so far underneath my spare bellows that no amount of coaxing will call him out. Eventually he'll get hungry. Or else his dwarf wife will fetch after him with a meat knife, and there won't be any peace for the yelling."
The Prince of High Kelair laughed with a flash of white teeth; his more taciturn companion made no comment. Chilly winds raked the bailey, and Haldeth hurried the visitors as quickly as politeness permitted into the shelter of the keep. Although the stair that led upward was unheated, the chamber above offered comforts. A log fire burned in the grate, and the table beneath walls lined with bookshelves had been laid with fine wine and food. The Master of Whitestorm arose and greeted his guests. He carried no weapons. Not so much as a dagger adorned his belt and though black, his tunic was on the courtly side of practical.
Prince Teadje accepted a chair and after him, the others chose seats. Korendir alone remained standing. As the mountain born reached for a dish, the mercenary saw, and returned a fractional shake of his head. "You're a guest. Let me." With a bow to his visiting royalty, he pointedly tasted each platter, then sampled the better of the wines. Candleflame struck sultry highlights in his hair as with enviable grace he sat down.
The mountain born coughed in apology. "Your man implied that a dwarf wife ran your kitchens."
Korendir raised his eyebrows. "Megga? Poison guests? I'd spit her before she ever dared."
Aware the quick words masked shock, Haldeth interrupted. "Nix saw tattoos on the Arrax man, and mistook him for a slave master."
The Lord of Whitestorm relaxed, but only fractionally.
His attention flicked back to his company. "Then I ask you to forgive the discourtesy. As a refugee from the mines, the poor dwarf probably had reason." Gray eyes shifted to the prince. "I regret to disappoint you further, Your Grace, but I don't any longer take contracts."
Prince Teadje hooked a slab of meat with his knife. "That is indeed regrettable." He raised eyes like unmarked brown velvet and sighed. "If we'd paid heed to the gossip of sailors, I could have avoided a tedious voyage."
Korendir filled the prince's goblet, unconcerned by the intensity with which the Arrax man studied the scars beneath his cuff. "The best I can offer is to hear your case and recommend a replacement."
Jade trappings glinted as Teadje inclined his head. "The king my father specified he would hire no other but yourself."
The Arrax man refused food, no longer on account of dwarf servants. His age was younger than first appeared, under graying hair and tattoos. His acerbity derived from hardship, and the clefts by his mouth reflected no other feeling but grief.
Korendir set aside the wine. His appetite was spare at any time, but the dishes that steamed by his hands also stayed untouched. "However dire your troubles, they cannot follow within these walls."
"Memories can," the Arrax man said bluntly.
His comment effectively stifled conversation. High Kelair was an island kingdom, not given to wars or disputes. The dispatch brought by Prince Teadje would not be the usual request to command armies, or assassinate a political enemy, or stand as bodyguard for some fearful nobleman. Firmly as Korendir insisted that his days of adventuring lay behind him, he could not look upon need without pity.
He retrieved the wine flask after a pause, then arose and stepped around the table. Personally he filled the Arrax man's goblet. "Drink," he urged firmly. "I would take it very ill if the hospitality of my house did not at least grant refreshment."
The Arrax man followed with his eyes as Korendir knelt to Prince Teadje, then lifted palms marked from all
his past forays and formally asked to see the contract.
Haldeth nearly choked on his salad. Pale, almost sick with alarm, he watched the prince draw out a document crusted with seals and tied in the manner of the eastlands with cords of emerald silk. The knots were an art form, each one ritually significant, but to Haldeth they resembled nothing so much as an obscene coupling of snakes.
Korendir accepted the parchment with steady hands. He arose, selected a knife from the table, and retired to an alcove window.
Only Prince Teadje kept his appetite while the former mercenary broke the seals. Haldeth and the Arrax man watched Korendir's back as he slit the knots and read. Neither saw anything that might lend a clue to his mood; only something about his stillness caused Haldeth to feel threatened.
"Fetch Ithariel," the Master of Whitestorm said presently. His tone was inflectionless and short.
Haldeth murmured excuse to the prince and left at once to complete the errand.
The enchantress answered her husband's summons alone. Warned by Haldeth's refusal to return, she had left young Callin with a servant. The lady reached the chamber just as Korendir laid aside the parchment. His voice masked the click of the latch as he asked the Arrax man to describe the predator which terrorized the passes through the Hyadons.
"Huge," came the bitter reply. Though Korendir remained gazing outward through the window, the mountain born continued without pause. "Looks like a great dark bird, but large enough to kill cattle. The horse lords in the valleys lost foals, until they moved their herds. That's when the monster took to slaughter among the caravans bound for Arrax."
Ithariel spoke sharply from the doorway. "Is the beast feathered or scaled?"
The guests at the table both started in surprise; neither had noticed her entry. Now, the presence of Korendir's wife caused noticeable impact. In robes of gold-bordered violet, with her cheeks flushed from her hasty ascent of the stair, the Lady of Whitestorm was stunning. Caught with his mouth full of vegetables, Prince Teadje succumbed to a frankly stupefied stare; the Arrax man simply answered with a directness as dour as his manner throughout.
