The tiredness that Tarod had felt earlier was suddenly as far from his mind and body as it could have been. He gestured towards the door, through which the last of the guests were gradually departing. "Then if I may escort you... ?"
She smiled mischievously. "With or without my father's permission?"
"Your permission is all that matters to me."
"Then you have it." Aware of a swiftly growing inner excitement, Sashka allowed him to lead her out into the low-lit corridor.
Chapter 10
Under the eerie double-zenith of the two moons, Tarod and Sashka stood together on the high Castle rampart, gazing out at the scene that lay spread before them. Keridil had ordered the Maze to be opened for the remainder of the festivities, suspending the supernatural barrier between the stack and the world beyond, and the distant contours of the stark coastline were dimly visible under a pewter-dark sky. Far below them, so far that they looked as unreal as a child's toys, the tents of those who had made camp on the Peninsula were scattered in clusters, illuminated by the sparking light of more than a hundred small fires. The patterns of firelight stretched away on the far side of the causeway, and very faintly, on a rare inland breeze, came snatches of sound which suggested that in some quarters revels still continued.
Sashka stared down for a long time without speaking. She was thrilled by the sense of glorious supremacy that standing on this tremendous height gave her; but for the Castle's four titanic and brooding spires, which dwarfed even the ramparts and which she preferred not to look at, she might have been poised on the very roof of the world. Carefully, not wanting to break the spell of the night, she stole a glance at the man beside her. The moonlight hardened the angles of his profile, putting her in mind of a bird of prey; the wind lifted his hair back from his face and his eyes were unquiet. Sashka moved a step closer to him, allowing her sleeve to brush against his hand as he did so.
He looked at her -- somehow she had the feeling that he'd forgotten her existence -- then the illusion fled as he smiled.
"Does the sight fulfill your expectations?" he asked.
"Threefold..." She drew a deep, satisfied breath. "It's so peaceful -- I'd dearly love to live in this place, and have such a view at my disposal whenever the mood took me."
He nodded towards the black bulk of the south spire, a bare few steps from where they stood. "The vista's better still from the very top. Would you like to see?"
"No -- " The refusal was hasty, and accompanied by an involuntary shiver. "No, I -- I think not. I'm content where I am." She moved again, this time standing a little in front of him and presenting a shoulder half bared by the low-cut neck of her gown. Moments later a hand came lightly to rest on her skin and she closed her eyes momentarily with the satisfaction of another small triumph, another step in the direction she wanted to take. Tarod's hand was thin but immensely powerful, she noticed; the ring on his index finger caught the nacreous light and magnified it, making her want to reach out and touch the stone. She forced herself to stay passive, only tilting her head back a little in unspoken invitation.
Tarod gazed down at her slim figure, aware of emotions stirring within himself that he'd never known before. In spite of her guile, which she made little effort to hide, Sashka had affected him deeply and he felt more and more helpless against the tide of his own feelings. A still, small inner voice urged him to caution, but he was fast approaching a point where he knew he would throw caution to the winds for her sake. He was captivated... and as he leaned towards her, his lips experimentally touching her hair, he knew that in all his life he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted this beautiful, mercurial girl.
How long they stayed there under the night sky, what they said, what either thought, Tarod couldn't later remember. An eternity seemed to pass until the moment when he found himself leading her slowly back towards the steep steps that wound down into the courtyard. As they passed under the spire its gigantic finger blotted out the moons and cast the way into dense shadow. Sashka stumbled against him and his hands closed about her waist; she turned in his grasp, her face an indistinct oval, and then he was kissing her with an intensity that shocked him. For a moment only she stood very still, as if frozen -- then she returned the intensity with a passion of her own, hands clawing and clasping at his shoulders with an almost animal desire.
Suddenly she broke away. Her eyes, wide with emotion, met his and she stepped back, gently freeing herself altogether.
"I -- must go..." she said incoherently. "It's late, Tarod -- I must go!"
"Sashka -- "
She didn't wait. Already she had turned, and was half-running towards the stairs. It was a few moments before Tarod's confusion allowed him to follow, and when he reached the top of the flight she was halfway down, 'hurrying recklessly towards the torchlit courtyard. Near the foot of the steps she paused, looked back -- and he thought that she raised a hand either to wave or to blow him a kiss. Then she was gone.
Even the most determined celebrants had finally given up their singing and dancing, stumbling away to the shelter of their tents or simply sleeping where they happened to fall, and at long last the Star Peninsula was utterly silent save for the faint murmur of the sea hundreds of feet below the granite cliffs.
Cyllan woke suddenly and unexpectedly, to find herself wrapped in the folds of her one blanket, her head pillowed on a tussock of grass. For a moment, as the last vestiges of what must have been a dream fled from her mind, she couldn't remember where she was -- and then recollection returned.
From this angle she could see the Castle and the lights that still glowed within. It must be deep night; the two moons were moving towards the horizon now, the smaller seeming to balance upon its greater twin, and a single gaunt shadow reached out from the distant structure.
Cyllan sat up, rubbing chilled arms. Something was tugging at a part of her mind; something disturbing and unhappy, and she looked quickly around her but found nothing untoward. She had elected to sleep outside tonight rather than share the noisome tent with her uncle and his drunken drovers, and by now they would be dead to the world -- nothing to fear there. What, then?
She thought back over the night's events. Earlier she had managed to slip away a second time and had returned to stand outside the Castle walls, listening to the distant strains of music as the noble company continued their festivities. She had wondered if she might see Tarod again, but not even a servant had emerged through the gate, and finally she had given up her vigil and returned to the camp where she made herself as comfortable as she could and fell asleep through sheer exhaustion while the carousing continued all around her.
But sleep was a world away now. She had dreamed, that much she knew, and in the dream had been a warning. Cyllan had long ago learned to trust auguries of all kinds, and the fact that this one now refused to reveal its nature disturbed her. Something was wrong -- and she couldn't rest until she knew what it was.
Moving with slow caution she sat up, pushing off the blanket and pausing a moment or two to make sure that there was no sign of life from the drovers' tent. When she was satisfied, she felt in a small leather pouch which she wore at her waist, concealed under her stained jerkin, and drew out a handful of small, blue-grey stones worn to an almost gemlike smoothness by the sea. She had gathered them on the grim beaches of the Great Eastern Flatlands and they never left her possession; they were a focus for the small power which she had learned to wield in her most secret moments, and if anything could solve this conundrum, the stones might provide the answer she sought.
Stealthily, Cyllan crept towards the cliff edge where no tents were pitched. She had no sand, but the soil here was thin and gravelly and might do almost as well. Finding a patch where no grass grew, she crouched facing northward and smoothed the earth as best she could into a rough circle, before grasping the stones tightly in her clenched fists and willing her mind to free itself from the confines of the mundane and enter a different world; a world where . all things were
possible. For a few minutes she feared that the old skill would fail her... then a tingling sensation at the nape of her neck told her that her consciousness was slowly, subtly beginning to change.
Odd colors swirled beyond Cyllan's closed lids; she felt a presence before her that she knew was illusory but to which she nonetheless held fast. The stones in her hands shifted as though alive and, judging her moment, she cast them onto the bare ground.
They fell into a pattern that was unfamiliar to her -- she sensed it even before she opened her eyes and saw with her physical senses. One -- the largest -- lay alone at the very center, while the others scattered outward in a rough, eccentric seven-armed spiral. As she stared at the stones Cyllan felt a sudden and violent resurgence of the fear generated by her dream, but still the source of it eluded her, and try as she might she couldn't recapture even the bones of the nightmare. There was only one other course she might take, and she closed her eyes once more, letting her hands move slowly until they were spread, palms down, over the pattern of fallen stones. Her own shallow breathing reverberated in her head; then through her splayed fingers she began to sense a faint, measured pulse. It was as if she were making contact with the very heartbeat of the land, drawing on its power to add to her own, to feel her way towards the goal she sought.
Gradually then an image began to take form in her inner vision. At first it was too indistinct to make sense, but as the pulse in the depths of her consciousness strengthened, so the image strengthened with it. The real world was fading, all awareness of the cold and the wind and the hard ground gone, so that Cyllan felt as though she hung suspended in a strange and unpredictable limbo.
With startling abruptness the astral image before her suddenly focused. She seemed to be looking through a dimly defined window, into a room lit only by a torch that burned sluggishly low in a bracket on the wall. Two people stood in the room, close together; a woman with long, rich auburn hair, and a man, much taller, dark, somehow familiar...
Cyllan's stomach lurched with a sick hopelessness as she recognized Tarod's lean frame. If this was a true vision -- and she had no reason to believe otherwise -- then it had turned her own fantasies to ashes.
Yet reason, struggling to break through the sharp sliver of pain, reminded her that the ominous sensation that had woken her tonight had nothing to do with her own half-formed desires -- it had been a portent, and one which rendered any personal feelings insignificant and meaningless. Biting her lip, Cyllan forced herself to concentrate on the tableau before her inner eye, willing understanding to come, trying to banish the useless jealousy that flared in her. She saw the tall, black-haired man move, his head turn as if he could sense her astral presence -- and she a/most bit through her tongue in shock as in that moment his form changed, and in his place a face that was terrifyingly alien yet terrifyingly familiar smiled malevolently back at her.
He was so like Tarod that they might have been twins -- but his hair was gold, and a deep instinct told Cyllan that he was not, and could never be, human. His smile widened and she saw his eyes changing color -- he seemed to be speaking but she couldn't hear the words; instead she suddenly felt suffocated by a rising, cloying fog of something deadly, something evil --
"No -- " Her own voice, breaking out in an involuntary protest, snapped the fragile web of the spell and she rocked back on her heels, almost falling, as the physical world twisted back into place around her like a cold slap. Shivering with the shock of such a violent return to consciousness Cyllan started to get to her feet -- then froze. Someone was standing on the far side of the Peninsula, beyond the scattered hummocks of tents and stalls and wagons. A tall, gaunt figure in a long cloak or shroud that hid his body from view was watching her. A peculiar aura like the deceptive Flatland marshlights shimmered around him, and through it his hair gleamed gold.
Cyllan's heart started to pound painfully as the dream-inspired fear flooded back. She jammed the heels of her hands against her eyes, shaking her head violently, then looked again.
There was no one to be seen.
"Aeoris..." She hissed the word as a protective charm through clenched teeth, at the same time involuntarily making a superstitious sign against evil. Even if her eyes had deceived her, her mind had not -- real or illusion, that eerie figure was significant. But the nature of its significance...ah, that was another matter, and it would take a greater mind and a greater power than she possessed to resolve that mystery.
Shivering, she hastily gathered up her stones and ran back towards the drovers' camp. Glancing towards the distant Castle the thought flitted through her mind that she might go there again, seek out the black-haired Adept, tell him of her forebodings; but she savagely dismissed it. She had no evidence -- and too many confused motives....
The fear was like a small spark inside her that refused to be extinguished as she lay down once more, pulling the blanket tight around her thin frame. The moons were setting, bringing true darkness... a short way off a pony stamped and snorted, making her jump. She took a mental grip on herself and huddled down further in the blanket's folds, shutting her eyes and willing sleep to come and drive away the night.
Cyllan's wasn't the only sleepless soul that night. Back in the sanctuary of his rooms Tarod sat as he had done for near on two hours, staring out over the Castle courtyard. Torches still burned there, warming the cold black of the stonework and casting a peaceful, kindly glow over the scene; by the gates a lone watchman yawned and paced slowly about to stretch stiff legs; a cat slunk through the colonnades on some private business.
Tarod would have given much to be able to sleep, but knew it was impossible. How many wakeful nights had he spent at this window, chafing against the long hours of darkness, afraid even to try to rest? There was no fear this time, but a different emotional turmoil; and an image of a pale oval of a face in the darkness, a sweet, pliant body, a soft voice... She had left him so quickly that there had been no time to catch hold of the confusion of feelings between them; now though, he would have given half his life to be with her again. And if this confusion of agony and joy was love, then it had taken hold of him with a vengeance.
Again and again he tormented himself with questions. Had he moved too fast and too far for her? Had he given offense? Was she merely indulging in some idle flirtation to pass her time at the Castle? Vulnerability was something that rarely troubled Tarod -- but he felt desperately vulnerable now, even though a part of him railed against his own weakness. He wondered if, despite her outwardly bold manner, Sashka too was unsure of herself -- if that was true, then he had overstepped the bounds of propriety, and the chances were that she wouldn't dare to face him again....
Abruptly he stood up, pacing across the room. He felt like an animal caged against its will -- so many unanswered questions, and nothing he could do would bring him any nearer to a solution. Sashka possessed the key to the cage; she alone could give or withhold it as she chose, and the knowledge of that hurt.
Realizing that this restless pacing was only making matters worse, Tarod turned back to the window and was about to sit down again when he heard -- or thought he heard -- a sound at the outer door. For a moment an irrational hope flared in him and he quelled it, telling himself it was nothing more than self-delusion.
Then he heard it again. Not quite a knocking, not quite a scratching, as though someone were trying to attract his attention without drawing attention from elsewhere.
Tarod's pulse was abnormally and uncomfortably rapid as he crossed the room and drew back the bolt. The door swung open -- and Sashka, in a thin night shift with only a shawl around her shoulders, gazed steadily at him from the darkened passage.
"I couldn't sleep..." She slipped into the room as, too stunned to speak, Tarod stepped back. The door closed with no more than a light tap which nonetheless made every nerve in his body tingle. Sashka stared silently about the room, her eyes wide and drinking in every detail, and at last he found his voice.
"Sashka..." Reason fought back thr
ough the emotion. "Your parents -- if they find you gone -- "
She shook her head, her hair rippling. "They're asleep, Tarod. They'll not wake till morning." She said nothing of the lecture she had received from her father on returning to their suite -- to her fury, he had waited up for her -- nor of the pinch of a strong herbal powder she had slipped into his glass of hot mulled wine when he finally, grumblingly, agreed to go to bed. The skills she was learning at the Sisterhood Cot were already proving their worth.
For a long time after her father fell asleep she had stood before the long glass in her own bedchamber, allowing her hands to move with slow languor over the contours of her body while she debated with herself what she should do. Could she have misjudged the look she had seen in the black-haired man's eyes tonight? She thought not -- but there was always the possibility that he was merely toying with her; and she would be a fool if she assumed herself shrewder and more worldly wise than a Seventh-Rank Adept. Yet an unerring feminine instinct told her that she had done right to leave him when she did, however much her own nature might have urged otherwise. Above all, she didn't want to seem too forward; didn't want to cheapen Tarod's opinion of her. Other men -- and she had known a few, experimenting like so many girls of her age and station -- might be manipulated with ease; this sorcerer was another matter. She wanted him, but knew he could not be won on simple terms.
Now though, the question that had haunted her since she had taken such precipitate leave of him earlier was answered. As his hand reached out, longing to touch her yet half afraid, she moved closer to him so that his fingers brushed her shoulder.
"Why did you go so suddenly?" His voice was hoarse.
The Initiate Page 16
