He seemed to understand some of that, because he snarled and said, “The owing be a’settled ready all with our lifewater!”
“You paid that debt to the Lûk, not to me,” said Zarost. He bent closer. “If ye come back upon yon querrying, I taker pains. I make a’foot running.”
The Hunter jutted his chin out stubbornly, waiting for Zarost to step out of the way.
“Please,” said Tabitha, brushing gently past his shoulder. “We need your help.”
The Hunter’s eyes widened as he looked at her then he knelt suddenly, despite his evident pain.
“Ye touch my heart with asingsong, ladyfayre, ye touch my heart.”
“Where is the Prince from Eyri?”
“The bratling is as gone, he left the Hide an bin running northwards from three days hence. ’s no loss to Bradach! We be glad to see him gone. He namer name of yon silversoul in a’hide, as’er yee.”
Zarost tensed. “Bevn spoke the name out loud as well?” He named Ametheus? The prince knew of things he shouldn’t know, coming from Eyri. It was unnatural. “How does he know where to go? Who is with him?”
The Hunter’s uncomprehending gaze swung from one face to the next.
“Who strays aside a’boy?” Zarost tried, using his best imitation of the Hunterly brogue.
“He be with a fiery wench, she inablack leatherly, a fighterly girl na querry. Anner ally, he giddey all onbeyon’ Bradach.”
“An ally? Who was the ally?”
The Hunter’s mouth made a little “O” of horror, and he looked suddenly inward, as if he’d wished he hadn’t said anything.
Tabitha squatted in front of him, her eyes at his level. “We need to know, goodman. We have to track these two, they are thieves. Who do they travel with?”
“I cannerna say! Yoch, ye canner ask me! He willerdo thinge terrible a’me!”
“Who will do these things?” asked Zarost.
“The ally! He is na ever angered!” The Hunter swung his panicked gaze from one face to the next. He tried to struggle to his feet, and he cried out in agony, but he rose nonetheless.
“Let me take away your pain!” Zarost offered again. “Or the lady Tabitha can heal you, if you’d prefer. Just tell us who the ally is.”
“Nay, I willna be drawn inneryor world so full a’treacherly. The ally helped a’Hunters first, an I’ll na betray him to another magickan, no matter the bargain be.”
The Hunter backed away, stumbling. Zarost looked at the man in amazement.
Another magickan, he’d said. The Hunters’ ally was a wizard, a male wizard because he’d said “him”.
Zarost tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. There were only four male wizards in the Gyre, besides Zarost. The Senior and Mentalist had been present in the Gyre Sanctuary when he’d left there recently. That left only the Lorewarden and the Warlock at large in Oldenworld.
“Does he have red eyes? The ally! A red that holds gold?”
The Hunter looked more horrified than he’d ever been. “I did na say that! I did na say it!”
But by denying that he’d admitted it, he revealed too much.
“Black Saladon,” Zarost declared.
The Hunter turned and fled, with hobbles, jumps and cries.
Tabitha made a small sound beside him. She couldn’t bear to see the poor man in such pain. Before she could try to do anything about it, Zarost sent a small spell of his own after the Hunter, a little stitch of nine—a blend of Order and Matter-magic that would encourage the loose threads of flesh to knit together. It probably wasn’t as good a healing as Tabitha could achieve with her Lifesong, but it would do. The hole he’d blasted in the wildfire web gave him a temporary freedom in the use of his spells. Nevertheless, he didn’t want Tabitha to use her magic again, not here, not until she had some understanding of what she was doing.
The Hunter stumbled then gathered speed. At this, Glavenor tensed. Zarost could see that the Swordmaster wanted to go after him.
“Let him go,” Zarost said gently.
“But he will lead us to Bevn!” Glavenor exclaimed. “Or at least to where he was. We can track the prince from there.”
“You’ll not follow them quickly through the Hunterslands,” Zarost replied. “Not if Black Saladon is leading them. No, we must use our wits if we are to stop them now.” He raised his eyebrows in the Swordmaster’s direction. Glavenor gave him another of his characteristically hard looks.
Zarost considered their predicament. Why was Black Saladon leading the renegade prince? Was that really the truth of the matter? Maybe Saladon had discovered the prince and his consort in Bradach Hide, and he was luring them away from whatever devious plan they had been trying to complete.
Zarost hoped that was the case. He wanted to believe that the Warlock was still on their side. If he’d joined Ametheus then there truly was little hope left for the Gyre, but then he remembered the trail of blood he’d seen in the Temple of Qirrh, and a cold chill crept up his spine. If the Warlock had been responsible for that…
Oh, of all the wizards, why did it have to be Saladon who had been turned?
The more he considered it, the worse it became. The Warlock was also a master strategist. He would know there was a chance his movements would be discovered. He would expect someone to try to follow him. He would have laid traps to slow down pursuit, or eliminate it. What was Saladon trying to achieve by leading the bearer of the Kingsrim north through the Hunterslands?
North, toward Slipper. Then the lowlands, and Turmodin.
No, it could not be!
If Ametheus got his hands on the Kingsrim, he would have a hold on every Gyre member. A part of their life-force had gone into the making of that crown, a part of every soul, woven into the threads of metal; it had been the only way to achieve the Kingsrim’s lasting effect. The aura of grandeur surrounding the crown and the longevity of the Shield anchored upon it relied on that secret link. So long as the wizards of the Gyre were alive, the Kingsrim retained its power, and while it retained its power, it held onto a thread of their souls.
“I must warn the Gyre, at once!” Zarost exclaimed then, aside, “We’ll be run through the miller if it reaches the Pillar.”
Tabitha snapped her head around. “Pillar? What pillar is that?”
“It’s where the Sorcerer dwells, in Turmodin.”
“You know where it is? Twardy, will you take us there? I must reach the pillar, before it is too late!”
“Are you mad, child? Nobody goes there. It is the centre of ruin, the source of all disorder. It is the very aperture of the apocalypse. Even fools do not go there willingly. You do not come back, if you go to the Pillar.”
Tabitha seemed forlorn, even desperately sad. “But I must. Oh Twardy, there is so little time left!”
Zarost couldn’t fathom why she wanted to die. She was so young, so talented, and yet she wanted to go to Turmodin? “Why do you want to rush to such a certain end? Was the wildfire not evidence enough of his power?”
“But he has Ethea! He has trapped the Goddess.”
All the doubts and worries that had plagued Zarost during his search for that missing lore torn from the Book of Is found a terrible conclusion in Tabitha’s announcement. He couldn’t understand how she knew it, but she was certain of her words. The ceremony of invocation was for Ethea, to bring the Goddess of Life into this world, to bind her, to trap her. It was a diabolical plan.
“She is going to die.” Tabitha spoke softly, looking at the ground.
No. It could not be. “How did you learn of this?” Zarost asked.
“I have been with her, Twardy. When I sing, I am taken closer to her. There, where the sky is red and the wet air smells of salt. I have seen what he has done to her.”
“You have seen? You have pierced the veil of Turmodin? You must take your vision to the Gyre! They must know what we face is dire.”
“Will it help Ethea? Will they do anything to save her?” Tabitha demanded.
&nbs
p; “They must,” he answered. “You cannot succeed alone, Tabitha! What will you do against the Sorcerer, if he has wielded the power to bind a Goddess? I’ve never heard of such might, he is too powerful to oppose alone; we shall need our combined power to match him. Besides, if Ethea is in danger now, you’ll not walk all the way to Turmodin in time to save her! There are quicker ways for wizards to move. Come with me to the Gyre. Many things will be clearly clear to you, once you have met the other few.”
“Will they show me the way to Turmodin?” she asked.
“That, and much more,” Zarost answered. “There is so much you can learn, now that your own lore has emerged. Come, we must travel by transference. We must travel at once.”
“Wait! What about Garyll?”
“The Swordmaster cannot come where we shall go, Tabitha, he is not a wizard.”
“No! If I am to go somewhere, Garyll must come with me, and Mulrano.”
“It cannot be done, Tabitha. Do you remember what it was like?” She wouldn’t have forgotten the time when he had saved her from the last Morgloth, those long moments when she had been suspended in infinity before he’d managed to gather her awareness and return her to Stormhaven.
“The stars?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes. We must go through them and beyond, to reach the Gyre. You have ... advantages ... that they do not have. They cannot come with us. They’ll lose their minds.”
“Is there no other way to reach the Gyre?”
He shook his head.
“Then I shall not come,” she stated flatly.
Glavenor touched her shoulder. “If it will help you understand, then go with him, Tabitha.”
“But if I leave here, how will I find you again?”
“You’ll always find him when you’re apart, you’ll find the man within your heart,” Zarost reassured her.
“Go, Tabitha, we are beyond the danger, Mulrano and I. We need answers, and only you can get them for us.”
She grabbed hold of Glavenor. They really had become attached to each other—love sparkled in their eyes, and its dark twin: the fear of losing love.
“I will give you some many moments, to say goodbye,” Zarost said. A goodbye was important, more important than a hello. It created the shape that the next hello would fit into. He gestured to the fisherman, and they walked aside, away from the bloody battlefield, toward the river. The Glimmershot was polluted, Zarost noted, full of fallout from the Chaos strike. They stood and watched the water flowing by.
“We fign Bevng?”
Zarost nodded. He appreciated the bluff fisherman. The man had bad arrow wounds, he’d just survived a battle, and yet he moved on, practical as ever. They had cut out his tongue, and he moved on. Like an ox. Like a river. Zarost liked him immensely.
“I must help Tabitha with her Goddess-relief, but you can help the Swordmaster catch the thief,” Zarost agreed.
“Woo have ung igea wheh vey ahh goink?”
“Indeed so, they would scuttle for the lowlands. They’ll make for Slipper, in the gap in the Winterblade range where this river falls away and becomes the Caskarrik. But you’ll not have a chance of catching them, even if you run on the Lûk roads.”
“Wo’ abouk rivah?” asked Mulrano, jerking his thumb in the direction of the frothing river course.
Zarost nodded, glad that Mulrano had chosen correctly. It was simple to guide a man like Mulrano. It was just a matter of placing the next practical solution ahead of his feet. The river would be the quickest. The Glimmershot River ran past Slipper. After the recent rains it was swollen and swift. It was what they might find in the Glimmershot that was not so helpful.
They watched the water for some time as it slid by in stretched grey ripples, like landscapes passing under a winter sky, like patterns in time. He couldn’t see anything moving within the liquid, which just proved that there wasn’t anything that was visible.
Would Saladon not have thought of using the river as well? He tried to think like the Warlock. Strategically it would be the best way to Slipper; it would avoid most complications that settlements and people introduced, but there was something menacing about it for the Warlock, very menacing indeed.
Water, especially flowing water, held bad memories for Saladon, phantoms that would wail at him from their graves. Zarost knew something of the Warlock’s childhood, and he knew it had ended with water. His parents had been swept away in a time of flood, and the young Saladon, a child of only six, had clutched onto the tree that had ultimately drowned them. It had rolled over his parents in their struggles. In the years that had passed, he had grown strong, and he had become a formidable fighter, and finally he had studied to be a wizard, but he had never outgrown that secret terror carved upon his spirit. Water drowned, water destroyed and water would take his life away. He controlled his fear well, and he probably thought his weakness was unknown, but Twardy Zarost knew how to infer things from the littlest signs, and he saw things that others did not.
Yes, the Warlock would have preferred the Lûk tunnels, or the cover of the deep forest. He would not have tempted the uncertain currents of the Glimmershot, and if he was escorting the Kingsrim, moving via a Transference spell was impossible.
Tabitha and Glavenor approached in silence and joined them beside the river.
“I must wizard Tabitha away, but she will come back,” Zarost promised. “While we are gone, the Kingsrim must not get to Turmodin, or we will lose everything. We are going to need your help to catch the thief, Swordmaster.”
Garyll looked up. “I am not the Swordmaster any more,” he corrected.
That explained the absence of the sword Felltang. “You have forgotten yourself? That is most difficult to do, most difficult.”
Garyll gave Zarost a level stare. “Forgetting is not the same as forgiving.”
“Ah, but remembering yourself again, that is the hardest of them all,” said Zarost.
“Riddler! Don’t vex me with your wit, give me some knowledge I can use to catch the crown thief! You think we’ll have a chance tracking them through the Huntersland? Is there somewhere we can intercept them?”
“Mulrano has already guessed upon the river. Run with the Lûk to Firro, it’s a riverside settlement to the north. Take a boat from there. It’ll be hard work on the upper reach, but hellish fast, three days at most. If you can reach Slipper in time, you may be able to intercept them. We shall join you as soon as we can. Look for the three spires of rock. They look like fingers, on the right on the final approach. You do not want to pass Slipper by mistake, the rapids beyond are too treacherous. Follow this river long enough and you’ll find yourself with the Sorcerer, at its end. Come, it’s time we went to the Gyre, wizard of Eyri.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She turned to Glavenor, planted a slow kiss on his lips. “I’ll come back soon, my love,” she said.
“Come back when your questions have been answered,” he replied. “Don’t worry about us, if Bevn gets to Slipper after us, we shall stop him.”
“Goodbye, Mulrano.”
The fisherman bobbed his head. “Hmh.”
A good man that, Mulrano. Zarost wished he had more time: time to stop and talk with him, time to fish with him on the Amberlake. When this was all over, he decided. He’d arrange for something large to bite his hook, just for the pleasure of seeing the joy and determination on the fisherman’s face as he was pulled off his boat, fighting his line. Zarost whispered the words for another Stitch in Nine spell, and guided the tight weave of essence to Mulrano’s wounds. Mulrano rocked back on his feet as the essence struck him, but he grinned and shook his head, as if enjoying a private joke.
“The Lûk are used to taking arrows,” Zarost added. “Ask them for some foaming salve. It’ll clean those scars out nicely as they knit.”
Tabitha turned to face Zarost, her lyre in hand. She squared her shoulders. “All right, I am ready. What do I do?”
“Nothing,” he said, tou
ching her shoulder.
His awareness expanded in a cosmic instant, and they were gone.
Two divided by infinity was just as thinly spread as one had ever been. With their coupled awareness they spanned the stars, the galaxies, and spread across deep space, to the end. It seemed black, utterly black, until Tabitha finally let go and the colours came out, the finest jewel-dust scattered upon a sea of blue-black velvet.
26. OITAMBAKALKALISSEMI
“If the end had your eye and you were the tool,
You’d gibber sometimes, and act like a fool.”—Zarost
Ametheus looked up at the endless stars. The winds spiralled around him, guided by his need. A vortex had opened in the low belly of the clouds. It allowed him to see all the way up to the night sky. He reached out his hands and sifted through the heavens, searching for the movement that would show him where the wizards might be. The winds pulled at his clothes—the forces were unbalanced, never under control. The encrusted surface he was standing upon shifted under his feet, and the Pillar below tilted with a shuddering groan.
He was frustrated, angry, impatient and scared.
Brother Amyar was the one who was angry—he always was. He remembered the early years, when destroying Order had seemed so certain. The whole terrible system of control had toppled, piece by piece, shot through with his wildfire. The structures of civilisation had crumbled under the raw force of Chaos like sandcastles before the tide, but as time had passed, the task had become more and more of a burden to complete. To eliminate Order altogether, to crush the final resistant strain, was fiendishly difficult. The smaller the source of Order became the more difficult it was to isolate and target. The Gyre of Wizards! For too long had he chased the last eight, the wicked spider of spells; for too long had he searched for their sanctuary. Seven now, considering the leg he had already broken off the spider—the traitor. He only had to find them once, and the game would be ended.
Brother Seus knew the wizards moved through the stars but he could not mimic their spells. He didn’t need to. He could snap off a piece of space and transport it whole. He never moved to the places himself. He simply moved whatever had piqued his interest to Turmodin, swapped it with a useless piece of coastline or sea or sky. The citadel below was an accretion of collectables, torn from the landscapes they had originally inhabited. He collected many things to his lair, some for their beauty, some for their company. Half of a bridge from Azique, with its spangled shroud-lines and scalloped copper plates, lay submerged in the clutter of the Pillar’s eastern foot. Smooth holed boulders from the riverbed near Fairway formed a root which jutted into the turgid seas to the north. Those boulders had supported a foaming green waterfall when he’d chosen them, but the river hadn’t survived the move. Upon the current roof he had planted some slender blue-leafed trees from the forests around Oren Lees, but since they had come with too little soil most of them had fallen over, breaking the coloured glass sculptures he’d wrenched from the ruins of Wrynn. Most of the towering building below was made of dark, rusted metal, pitted and bent, gathered by the waifs within the Pillar in the hope of preventing slippages and structural collapse. Such efforts were wasted, but the inhabitants of the Pillar never understood that. They were too short-lived to learn the futility of their actions and too fearful of his wrath to leave. So close to the Nodes of Chaos, trying to build structure into anything was hopeless. If there was order to the construction, it would fall apart. Only haphazard, careless placement allowed the Pillar to grow, the new elements balanced impossibly upon the layers below. And so the Pillar had grown and grown, a monumental mass of Oldenworld’s prettiest scraps, added to year by year, until now it thrust him up to the very base of the clouds. It should have collapsed centuries ago, and yet it clung to its many pieces, erect, hollow, with a flush of false vitality within it.
Second Sight: Second Tale of the Lifesong Page 44
