The Initiate

by Louise Cooper

  The third and theoretically most influential member of the triumvirate had also sent a message to Keridil -- a stiffly formal and slightly gauche letter that awkwardly expressed all that protocol demanded. Fenar Alacar, the High Margrave, was just seventeen years old, and struggling to become worthy of the hereditary title to which he had succeeded a bare month earlier, when his youthful and vigorous father was killed in a hunting accident. He alone had not been expected to attend the inauguration -- the High Margrave, as first ruler of the world, traditionally did not leave his home on the Summer Isle in the far south except in dire emergency; and when the festivities were ended one of Keridil's first duties would be to present himself at the Summer Isle court for final ratification. Until then, Fenar Alacar was and would remain simply a name to which no one had yet put a face.

  But although all attention was centered on the nobler guests who arrived at the Castle, the higher ranks were vastly outnumbered by the flood of common folk converging on the Peninsula. Traders had seen an unheard-of opportunity to profit from such a great gathering, and itinerant bands from every part of the country set up makeshift camps on the Peninsula in the hope of selling the goods they had on offer. Along with them came countless numbers of farmers, fishermen, herders, craftsmen, until the entire stack on which the Castle stood was alive with milling humanity.

  Among the throng as the first day of the celebrations dawned were several parties of drovers, and one party, led by a burly, middle-aged man with grizzled hair, had settled themselves on the main Peninsula to see what was to be seen. One of their number, a girl dressed in rough men's clothes, slipped away from the group as soon as she prudently could and made her way to the twin cairns that marked the giddying causeway. A young Initiate in formal clothes, with a short cloak thrown over his shoulders against the early morning chill, leaned against one of the stone piles, idly watching the newest arrivals, and he smiled at her as she approached. She nodded shyly back then stopped, lacking the courage to go any further.

  To Cyllan, the scene was like something out of a dream. It was one thing to hear stories of the Star Peninsula, but another to actually be here, to see the Initiates' stronghold with its towering cliffs and breathtaking grandeur with her own eyes. From this aspect the Castle itself was invisible, but Cyllan knew from hearsay of the strange barrier that kept it aloof from casual scrutiny. If she could summon the courage to approach the cairns, walk past the sentinel and cross the granite bridge, then she could see the Castle; a privilege that would be something to hold to for as long as she lived....

  She admitted to herself, though reluctantly, that she had another motive beyond the simple desire to view the Castle's splendors with her own eyes. A memory that she kept in a secret corner of her mind, of a brief meeting with the tall, black-haired sorcerer whose eyes had hidden so much pain. They had spent such a short time together, but she had not forgotten one moment of the interlude. He had been the first man in her life who had treated her as an equal and a friend, rather than looking upon her either as a potential whore or a nonentity unworthy of notice. She wished that she could see him again... and although she nursed no illusions about the possible consequences of a second encounter, at least if she could find her way into the Castle precincts she might catch a glimpse of him....

  She was still hovering indecisively in the vicinity of the cairns, and started when, unexpectedly, the young Initiate spoke to her.

  "You may cross if you wish to," he said.

  Cyllan stared at him, and he added, "The causeway's not that frightening once you've set foot on it."

  He had mistaken the reason for her reluctance, and she shook her head. "No -- I'm not afraid of the bridge. But I thought..." Involuntarily her eyes were drawn to a party of gorgeously dressed women riding by at that moment, and the young man understood.

  "There are no barriers today," he told her with a kindly smile. "Anyone may come and go as they please."

  "I see. Th-thank you."

  His smile broadened. "When you reach the far side, take care to walk through the darker patch in the grass. That's the gateway of the Maze -- without it, the Castle's hard to find!"

  "I'll remember." She gave him a grateful look which lit her face, making him think that she wasn't as plain as first impressions suggested, then moved between the cairns. As she was about to step on to the causeway a female voice shouted, "You there! Out of the way!"

  Four tall and beautifully groomed horses shouldered past, almost knocking her down. The leading pair were ridden by Sisters of Aeoris in white robes and headbands, while two younger girls, both richly dressed but wearing the gauzy white veils that marked them as Novices, followed. One of the girls glanced down at Cyllan and she had a momentary impression of a soft coil of copper-brown hair framing an exquisitely beautiful face whose expression held confidence and arrogance in equal measure. Then the horses were ahead of her, their riders sitting straight-backed and graceful as they trotted across the causeway. Cyllan's mouth twitched once in wry envy, and she started out across the dizzying bridge in the horses' wake.

  Although she had never before visited the Star Peninsula, Sashka Veyyil had all the cool composure of good breeding that enabled her to hide the awe she felt at her first sight of the Castle. She loftily ignored the gasps of the other Novice at her side as they passed through the Maze and the vast, ancient structure began to materialize, and kept her eyes sharply focused on the main gateway that lay ahead beyond the milling crowds. They were later arriving than she would have liked, and Sashka silently cursed the elderly Seniors who had accompanied them from the Cot in West High Land and whose dithering had held up the journey. Her parents would be here already, and would no doubt have established for themselves a better view of the inauguration ceremony than she could hope to find, and she regretted her decision to attend as a Novice-Sister rather than a Veyyil of Han Province.

  Sashka had entered the Sisterhood less than a year ago, but already her personality was beginning to make its mark. Her father -- a Saravin -- and her mother -- a Veyyil, from whom she took her own name -- represented the two most influential clans in their district, and from the day of her birth their only daughter had been destined to raise the family's status to even greater heights. Her entry into the Sisterhood had added another star to their horizon; no longer merely noble, she had become overnight both noble and deeply respected. And the fact that she studied at the West High Land Cot, where Kael Amion was head Senior, added extra weight to her standing.

  But for the course of the next seven days Sashka's mind would be on other matters than those normally expected of a Novice Sister. She was nearly twenty years old, and in her home province that was a good age for a girl to be married. The Sisterhood provided no barriers to wedlock -- she could easily divide her time between the Cot and a matrimonial home of her own without jeopardizing her studies -- but Sashka had set her sights high. And these celebrations in honor of the new High Initiate might provide the ideal opportunity to make the acquaintance of clans who could provide more eligible candidates than had thus far come her way.

  They were approaching the gates now, clattering under the cavernous black arch, and Sashka felt a sudden thrill that was half excitement and half unease course through her. Even her carefully nurtured insouciance wasn't proof against her first sight of the vast courtyard, the myriad glittering windows, the titanic spires that soared sickeningly into the brightening sky, remote and aloof, and she swallowed hard against an involuntary gasp. Servants came forward to help her and the other women dismount, and two men bearing the gold badges of Initiates greeted them formally before escorting them towards a corner where a large group of Sisters were already gathered. As Sashka followed them she heard a voice calling her name, and turned to see her father hailing her from a short distance away.

  "Sashka! My dearest child!" He embraced her exuberantly. "I set Forvan to keep watch for your arrival. Where are you to be seated?"

  Sashka kissed him on both cheeks then indica
ted the direction in which her companions were being led.

  He snorted. "You'll be lost among the rabble over there! Come; your mother and I have a fine vantage point, and you'll be able to see everything perfectly." He clasped her about the waist, hugging her fondly. "And others will be able to see you, which is perhaps more to the point, eh?"

  He always understood... "Thank you, Father," she said warmly and, without a second glance towards her friends, let him lead her away.

  As the sun climbed towards meridian, filling the vast sky with a blood-crimson light, the procession that marked the inauguration of the new High Initiate of the Circle emerged into the courtyard. At its head walked three ranks of dignitaries in tightly formed lines; first, the official representatives of the High Margrave, in full court attire, each holding a gilded staff of office like a sword in front of his face; second, the higher ranking members of the Council of Adepts; third, a file of senior Sisters of Aeoris, all wearing the yellow sash that identified them as direct emissaries of the Matriarch herself. Following these heralds, and feeling more alone than at any moment before in his life, was Keridil, a gold-embroidered cloak on his shoulders and a circlet bearing the High Initiate's insignia on his brow. As he reached the courtyard his gaze flicked briefly across the crowd and he licked his lips nervously; then with an effort he regained his composure and stared steadily ahead. And making up the bulk of the procession came Adepts, Councillors, Margraves and Province Elders, each carefully placed according to rank, moving with slow dignity into the courtyard amid an impressive and almost eerie silence.

  The procession slowed to a halt in the great square of the courtyard where the Inaugural Rite would be conducted. The official emissaries turned about, and Keridil stepped forward to stand facing them, the focus of all attention. The procedure was simple enough, despite its solemnity. First, the High Margrave's officers would make a speech pronouncing the ruler's ratification of the new High Initiate; then the Matriarch's chief representative would give her blessing, and finally all those who owed allegiance to the Circle would file past and pledge loyalty and fidelity to the High Initiate's seal. When all was done, the procession would move on beyond the Castle so that the throng who had been unable to squeeze themselves into the embrace of the black walls could see Keridil for themselves, and Keridil would lead the entire gathering in a Prayer and Exhortation to Aeoris.

  Themila stood beside Tarod, acutely conscious that being escorted by a seventh-ranker placed her much further forward in the processional hierarchy than she could otherwise have expected. The trailing hem of her Councillor's robe -- brought out of a trunk and dusted off for this rare occasion -- had almost tripped her twice, and her arm -- which rested in a formal posture on Tarod's arm -- already ached from the strain caused by the differences in their height. As they negotiated the steps from the main entrance she glanced obliquely at her partner. He was dressed austerely by comparison to most of his peers and made a more striking figure because of it -- but he looked preoccupied; there was a disquiet in his eyes, a restlessness in his manner. She let her hand, overlying his, contract a little; he felt the light touch and looked at her.

  Themila smiled. In a whisper perfected during long sessions in the Council chamber she said, "I think Keridil will be glad when this part of the celebration is over."

  Tarod watched Keridil's broad back for a moment. Already the burdens of responsibility were telling, and he and Themila were by no means the only ones to have noticed the change. "Thank the gods it's but a short ceremony," he murmured. "Once it's done with our new High Initiate might be allowed to enjoy his position at last."

  "Indeed. But don't you dare get him drunk tonight!"

  Tarod raised his dark eyebrows in mock chagrin, then abruptly his expression sobered. "I suspect I'll be too concerned with getting myself drunk to worry about Keridil."

  "What?" Themila hadn't heard him clearly.

  He smiled at her. "Nothing. Let's concentrate on the ceremony."

  The formalities were over. The long speeches had been made, the presentations completed, and the Circle and their guests could at last drop the stiff masks of ritual and begin to relax in preparation for the livelier festivities that lay ahead.

  Tonight there would be a banquet in the great hall, followed by music and dancing, and as he moved through the crowd towards the Castle's main door Keridil hoped that the older guests would be willing to take their cue from him and not insist on turning the evening into a stultifying exercise in manners. He needed the chance to unwind a little, forget the rigors of the inauguration. Duty was one thing, but there were limits to the amount of ritual a man could endure and Keridil felt tired and in need of relaxation.

  People stopped him at every turn to offer congratulations, and it was some while before he finally reached the main door. When he did he found Tarod leaning against the carved stonework of the entrance, waiting for him.

  Keridil clasped his friend's shoulder in a brief gesture of greeting. "Well, the worst part's over." He lifted the circlet to wipe sweat from his forehead. "There'll no doubt be any number of new faces to meet and be polite to tonight, but I should cope with that passably enough, once I've had a cup of wine to fortify me!"

  "You've coped magnificently so far, Keridil," Tarod observed. "I was very impressed by your speech outside the gates. Your confidence did you credit."

  "From you, that's high praise indeed!" Keridil said malevolently, then laughed. "Seriously though, the confidence was a sham. You can't imagine what it's like standing out there before that vast sea of faces, knowing that every eye is focused on you... it's like a public trial." Yet even as he spoke he remembered how moved he had been by the experience; the throng of people stretching almost as far as the eye could see, all eager, all listening, all wishing him well... "I almost forgot the words of the Exhortation," he admitted in an undertone. "That would have been a stylish beginning, wouldn't it?"

  "But you didn't."

  "No. I didn't." Keridil paused for some while, then sighed. "Tarod, I believe I envy you."

  "Envy me? Why?"

  "Oh... don't mistake me; I'm having no real doubts. But I'm no longer my own man. From today forward -- until I die -- everything that I do must be done for the good of the Circle, and my own wishes come a very poor second. It's inevitable, of course, and I accept it; I'm very proud of the honor. But that doesn't mean I don't -- won't -- regret it from time to time."

  Not having been privy to Keridil's last conversation with Jehrek before the old man's death, Tarod didn't understand the full significance of the remark. Nonetheless, he could sympathize.

  "It's not something any man could face with equanimity," he said, staring down at his own hand which played restlessly on the hilt of his knife, "If I were in your place -- " He shrugged.

  "Be thankful you're not!" Then Keridil shook his head. "No; I'm being unfair. It's just the demands of the day... I'll feel differently about things by morning." Suddenly he smiled. "But that still won't stop me wishing you were meeting me and not Rhiman Han in the horsemanship trials tomorrow!"

  "You'd win," Tarod said sourly. "You always do."

  "Did," Keridil corrected him. "It's beneath the dignity of the High Initiate to cavort in the arena, so from now on I'll have to resign myself to being a mere spectator. If I'd -- damn!"

  Alerted by the sudden venom in Keridil's voice Tarod looked over his shoulder. Cleaving determinedly through the crowd towards them was a thin middle-aged man, followed by a plump, red-haired girl whom Tarod recognized.

  "Inista Jair and her father..." Keridil said through clenched teeth. "The two people in this world whom I feel least inclined to meet at the moment... forgive me; I'll be on my way before they reach us."

  He disappeared hurriedly through the doorway, and Tarod turned and began to move at leisure down the steps. Inista and her father passed close by him; he nodded coolly to the girl and received an uneasy scowl in return.

  Towards the gateway the press of people ea
sed a little, although there was still a good deal of two-way traffic through the huge arch. Tarod followed a group of farmers who were leaving the Castle, agog with all they had seen, and emerged onto the smooth grass of the surrounding sward. Here the wind was brisk and refreshing, and the sun, near setting, cast a quiet red glow over the Peninsula and the sea beyond. Booths, tents and stalls were set up in a random jumble, and traders were doing brisk business among those who were staying on to see the festivities. One or two shouted to Tarod as he passed, trying to interest him in wine or food or some trinket or other; he merely shook his head and walked on.

  He didn't see the girl at first, and was unaware that she had been watching him for some while. Cyllan's sorcerous talents were small, but when she saw the tall, dark figure emerge from the Castle gate she had used all her will power to make herself merge into the general background, suddenly struck by a wave of fear that, if he did see her, he wouldn't remember her.

  Backing away as he drew nearer she collided with the owner of a wine stall, who first swore roundly at her then began exhorting her to try a cup of whatever ungodly brew he was selling. Opening her mouth to refuse, Cyllan suddenly thought better of it and dug into her belt-pouch. She had a few coins from the grudging pittance her uncle paid her to buy food, and nothing better to spend them on. Besides, the wine might boost her courage a little. So she argued the price with the stallholder, beat him down to what she considered a fair level, and took the brimming and none too clean cup.

  The wine was vilely acrid, but strong. She had forced herself to take three or four mouthfuls of it when she sensed someone beside her, and looked up into Tarod's eyes.

  Tarod had been idly investigating the next door booth, ignoring the holder's persuasions, when he saw the girl in workmanlike clothes with the strikingly pale hair. Memory stirred but he couldn't put a name to her, and curiosity prompted him to move closer. Now she looked into his eyes, blinked once, and said, "Tarod..."