Time passed unnoticed until loud disagreement from the room above forced itself into Temar’s misery. He emerged red-faced from beneath the pillow, tears and dirt smeared on his face. One shrewish voice rose indignant, prompting a harsh response that rang through the floorboards.
Temar couldn’t make out the meaning. How was he ever going to make good his bold boasts to Guinalle when it took all his concentration just to comprehend what people were saying? Albarn, Brive, all the others, they’d turned back from this insane attempt to revisit the world they had lost and no one had thought the worse of them. Why couldn’t he have done the same?
Because his rank denied him that freedom: Temar could almost hear Guinalle’s terse reply, for all that she was half a world away. Because he had a duty to his people and the only way he could fulfil his obligations was to risk the ocean crossing and all that he might find in this strangely changed Tormalin. For whatever reason, by whatever means, Saedrin had entrusted those people to his care, and if he failed—Temar shivered. He would have no words to excuse his failure when he came to knock on the door to the Otherworld and seek admittance from the god who held the keys. And what would Guinalle think of him hiding his head like a child afraid of Eldritch-men creeping out of the shadows?
Temar went numbly about the business of a much needed wash, oblivious to the luxuries of the room. Raising a blade to his face was beyond him, he realised, finding his hands shaking so badly that he spilled soapy foam all over the marble washstand. Scowling fiercely, he forced himself to concentrate on mopping up the trivial mess and the dread oppressing him faded a little until a knock on the door set his heart pounding. “Enter,” he managed to say before his voice cracked.
The door opened and Avila slid into the room, her faded eyes hollow in a face grey with fatigue. “So, are you comfortable?” It was a meaningless question, Temar realised, just an excuse to come and find him.
“After the privations of Kel Ar’Ayen?” He gestured at the snowy linen of the bed, the polished floor and the curtains embroidered with Ostrin’s faithful hounds. “I’ll sleep through the chimes and back again, given half a chance.”
“I doubt we’ll get that.” Avila summoned a faint smile. “Are there any others from the ship lodging here?”
“No.” Temar tried to mask his own regret. His friends among the sailors and mercenaries might have been little more than casual acquaintances but he’d rather spend the evening sharing a flagon of ale with them than dining alone with Avila. This trip was going to be trial enough without her bracing criticism constantly at his elbow.
The great bell of the shrine broke into the awkward silence with its unexpected peal. As the master note struck eight times, Temar realised Avila’s eyes were edged with white, her taut face reflecting his own myriad anxieties. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to spend the evening trying to deflect her usual challenges after all. Seeing the normally assertive woman so subdued put perverse heart into Temar.
“A true sound of home, which must mean it’s time to eat.” He forced an encouraging smile, but Avila looked askance at him. “Try something sweet, or a little wine, just to settle your stomach?”
“Your appetite’s not suffered then.” Her sceptical tone was a faint echo of her normal forthrightness.
Temar held out his arm, and as Avila took it they walked downstairs. His boots fell heavy on the floorboards, in contrast to the whisper of Avila’s soft shoes, and abruptly the fleeting confidence buoying him fled. All at once Temar felt weary to his very bones and complex qualms filled his belly, leaving him no wish for food. But a lad in what must be a livery of the shrine bowed to them as he arrived with a tray of covered dishes and Temar followed him to a south-facing room furnished with simple elegance. If old ways still held true, all this was gifts from those grateful for Ostrin’s hospitality, Temar recalled. As Avila released his arm, he went to stand at a broad bay window looking out across the ocean. A bright blue sky was streaked with white clouds tinged with gold, the sun making some amends before retreating behind the mountains lifting a dark shadow to the west. Temar shoved clenched fists deep into breeches pockets to stop their trembling as he looked at the sea, sparkling and serene with no hint of the fury that had so nearly been the death of them all.
“Here you are, Demoiselle, Esquire.” The lackey was laying out dishes on the table as he spoke. “There’s pease with leek and fennel, sheatfish in onion sauce, mutton with rosemary, and mushrooms in wine. Now, ring if there’s anything else you need.” He placed a little silver bell next to the place he was laying for Temar and startled him with a quick wink before going on his way.
Temar’s battered spirits revived a little. Perhaps he and the other folk of Kel Ar’Ayen weren’t too far removed from their long-lost relatives. That thought set him wondering where Ryshad might be.
“Now what do you suppose those two want?” Avila ignored the food, joining Temar at the window and looking down on the paths and lawns of the shrine. “I’m more than a little tired of these wizards treating us like some freak show.”
Temar watched two women emerge from another guest house and found he shared Avila’s weary annoyance. “Probably hotfoot with the usual curiosity about Kel Ar’Ayen and its fate.”
“These so-called scholars don’t appreciate we’ve a new life to build, as surely as when we first made landfall,” said Avila tartly.
“They are helping, most of them,” Temar protested, forcing himself to be fair. “Without the mages of Hadrumal, we’d all still be locked in enchanted darkness.”
“Are we expected to repay that debt forever?” sniffed Avila.
Temar didn’t know how to answer that, but she turned away to pour herself a goblet of rich red wine from a crystal jug. “Please give my apologies to the servants, but this is all too rich for me to stomach.” She took a piece of fine white bread from an ornate silver basket. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Temar watched her go with mingled relief and dismay. It wasn’t as if he particularly liked Avila, still convinced she’d some hand in Guinalle’s refusal to accept the love he offered, but the acerbic Demoiselle was the only person he knew on this side of the ocean.
He lifted the lid on one of the silver dishes but his gorge rose at the spicy scent of the mutton. He poured himself some wine. No, Avila wasn’t the only person he knew here. There was Ryshad. Was the sworn man going to prove the true friend he’d seemed the year before? Temar sipped the excellent vintage and tried to ignore a mocking memory of his self-assured boasts to Guinalle before sailing. It was his duty to serve Kel Ar’Ayen by presenting their needs to the nobility gathered for Solstice in Toremal, and he’d surrender that to no man, he’d told her.
Now he wondered just what he would find there, seeing how this one little town was so fearfully changed.
He needed Ryshad’s help, that much was certain. Setting down his wine, Temar opened the parlour door, but as he did so a hall lackey opened the main door to the two lady mages and Temar hesitated, pushing the door to.
“You owe Casuel a certain duty of gratitude. He recognised your affinity and brought you to Hadrumal. That does not entitle him to treat you as his personal maid.” Velindre sounded a worthy match for Avila at her most abrasive.
Temar smiled a little as he held the parlour door open a crack and watched the lackey usher the women into a dining salon.
“My lady Velindre Ychane and my lady Allin Mere.” The grace titles seemed entirely appropriate as the taller mage swept elegantly into the room, Allin at her heel visibly unsure of herself. Temar sympathised ruefully.
“Good evening.”
Temar clicked his tongue in annoyance as he heard Ryshad’s courteous greeting. There would be no chance to speak to him in private now. As he wondered what to do, the other mage, Casuel Something-Or-Other, bustled down the stairs, all ill-disguised curiosity and smoothing a full-skirted coat of rich tan velvet as he hurried into the dining room. The fool was going to be uncomfortably hot in that, though
t Temar uncharitably. No, Guinalle was always rebuking him for that kind of rapid judgement. Temar rubbed a hand over his long jaw. If he was ever going to make Guinalle change her mind about him, he had to succeed in this voyage. Unknown wizards intent on their own concerns could be a real thorn in his shoe. Temar walked softly down the hallway and listened at the dining salon door.
“Are the colonists not joining us?” That was Velindre. An artless question, Temar thought, but why ask when she could plainly see they weren’t?
“Not tonight.” Ryshad was courteous as always. “So, what’s your interest in Kellarin?” Courteous but blunt when need be. Temar grinned.
“A passing one,” the mage replied readily enough. “I’m only interested in so far as it relates to the Elietimm threat.”
Temar felt his skin crawl and fancied the chill silence filling the room was nigh on palpable through the door.
“We have no reason to suppose they have abandoned their ambitions to territory beyond their own islands,” Velindre continued easily.
“And you saw no need to seek Planir’s permission or guidance before involving yourself in concerns that reach as high as the Emperor himself?” asked Casuel waspishly.
“Not for a few general enquiries, no,” Velindre said coolly.
Casuel cleared his throat. “The Elietimm were comprehensively rebuffed when they tried to seize Kellarin last year. It’s clear enough their scheming in Tormalin before that was part of their search for the lost colony. They’ll know they are overmatched now and abandon such adventures.”
Temar shut his eyes on vivid recollection; black-hearted Elietimm raiders shattering their dream of a new life over the ocean, murdering friends and mentors, forcing the trapped survivors to insane trust in the half-understood enchantment that was their only hope of refuge. Bloody visions of carnage hovered at the edge of his mind’s eye while the screams of the slaughtered sounded silently in his ears.
“We held our own in the fight for Kellarin only because Temar and I were able to kill their enchanter.” Ryshad contradicted Casuel and Temar opened his eyes. “Fortunately Elietimm troops are so in thrall, be it through enchantment or simple terror, that once their leaders are dead the rest surrender. As long as their enchanters survive, they are a lethal foe.”
“Their earlier crimes in Tormalin first got you involved?” Velindre evidently wanted Ryshad to confirm what she had already learned. Wizards were all like that, Temar mused, never taking anything on trust.
“A nephew of Messire D’Olbriot was attacked, robbed and left for dead. I was pursuing those responsible when I met Darni, the Archmage’s agent, and learned of his interest in the matter.” Ryshad’s voice was emotionless, but Temar knew the truth of the swordsman’s desperate battles for life and liberty as he sought his master’s revenge. He wondered bleakly if he’d ever match Ryshad’s self-possession.
“Which is when these people were first traced to islands in the far ocean,” Casuel hurried to fill the silence Ryshad had let fall. “And we first identified their peculiar magic”
And the men of those ice-girt islands were descendants of the self-same Elietimm who massacred the first colonists of Kel Ar’Ayen, who forced them into enchanted sleep as the only means of saving themselves. Waking so many generations adrift from the world they’d known still to be assailed by the same foul enemy was a torment worthy of Poldrion’s own demons. Temar set his jaw. Common foes meant common cause and, with the Elietimm already enemies of princes such as D’Olbriot, the colonists could look for help this time. Whatever else had changed in the endless years of their sleep, the fundamentals of honour were untarnished.
Velindre was speaking again, her voice hard and low, and Temar strained to hear. “Aetheric magic, some sorcery that the mage-born cannot comprehend, let alone wield.” As with most wizards Temar had encountered since waking to this strangely changed world, Velindre clearly felt this a personal affront to her own curious powers. Was that her reason for being here?
“Which we now know to be the magic of the Old Empire?” That safe contribution had to be from the younger woman, Allin.
“What the ancients called Artifice,” Ryshad confirmed, an encouraging note in his voice. “But when the Empire fell into the Chaos, nearly all such knowledge was lost.”
“Meaningless superstition peddled by priests and shrines,” said Casuel tartly. “Not worthy to be called magic”
How dared this overdressed fool judge something he knew less than nothing about? Artifice had held together a greater Empire than any this age would ever see. Temar reached for the door handle but someone unexpected was setting Casuel right.
“Elietimm enchantments rend minds and twist wills. Worse, mage-born working their own spells are peculiarly vulnerable to attack,” snapped Velindre. “Cloud-Master Otrick lies in a deathless sleep thanks to these scum. Until we can counter their sorcery, the Elietimm are a potent threat to wizardry, whether they cross the ocean this summer or in a generation hence.”
“They’re just as much a threat to Tormalin,” Ryshad pointed out in moderate tones. “I wouldn’t wager a lead penny against them crossing the ocean again inside a couple of seasons. I’ve visited the barren rocks they call home. No one would live there given a choice. That’s why Planir and Messire D’Olbriot sent last year’s expedition in search of the lost colony. Finding some knowledge of Artifice to combat Elietimm enchantment was reckoned worth the risks.”
No, it hadn’t been some selfless bid to rescue those unfortunates lost in the toils of ancient magic, thought Temar glumly. He was tired of hearing Kel Ar’Ayen always discussed in terms of its utility to other people.
“The colony’s rediscovery must have tongues wagging from the Astmarsh to the Cape of Winds,” ventured Allin.
“Hundreds of people hidden in a cavern over countless generations, bodies uncorrupted by time or decay while the very essence of their being was locked in some inanimate artefact.” There was unmistakable challenge in Velindre’s tone. “I still find it incredible.”
That was quite enough. Temar opened the door. “Incredible or not, I am living proof that it is so.” There are scant people you owe a bent knee to, he reminded himself, summoning all the poise he’d learned as a nobleman in the final days of the Old Empire.
“Temar, may I make known Velindre Ychane, mage of Hadrumal, and Allin Mere, also a wizard.” Ryshad fetched an extra chair from the side of the room without comment. “Ladies, I have the honour to present Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin.”
“The honour is all mine.” Temar made a low bow.
“Wine?” offered Ryshad. “We have a white from the western slopes of Kalavere, which should be good, or a Sitalcan red, which I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“White, thank you.”
Ryshad saluted Temar with the goblet as he passed it over and then rang a small silver bell. Temar took his seat.
“So what was it like?” Velindre fixed Temar with an intent look. She wore a plain, round-necked gown of fine indigo wool, her face free of any cosmetic and her only jewellery a chain of silver around her neck carrying no pendant or jewel. Long blonde hair was braided in a plait with tidily trimmed ends sun-bleached nearly to white. Temar guessed her a handful or more years Ryshad’s senior.
“Like sleeping, mostly, with some dreams like those of a fever,” Temar replied with bland composure. He wasn’t about to elaborate on his turbulent visions of those who’d unwittingly borne the sword holding his consciousness locked deep within it.
Velindre was about to pursue this but a maid entered with a tray. Ryshad alerted her to lay an extra place in front of Temar with a quick gesture and everyone sat in silence, watching the lass set down a sauceboat alongside a dish of pork braised in wine and green oil.
“Superstition or not, you can trust those serving Ostrin to keep their vow of discretion,” Ryshad said with some force as the girl departed with an uncertain backward glance.
“You were caught up in this enchantment, wer
en’t you?” Velindre challenged him.
“Thanks to the contrivance of Archmage Planir.” Ryshad leaned back in his chair, rolling rich red wine round in the engraved glass he had cupped in one hand. “He ensured I was given Temar’s sword. I dreamed of Temar and the colony as it had been so long ago. That gave the final clues to finding the cavern.”
Temar managed to meet the older man’s half-smile with a nod of his own. The terrors of madness both had suffered, the struggle for identity and mastery over Ryshad’s body as Temar, all unwitting, had struggled to break free of the enchantment: that was no one’s business but their own.
Velindre was patently not satisfied and turned back to Temar. “I hear you have an Adept of Artifice with you?”
“Avila Tor Arrial,” replied Temar, striving for Ryshad’s self-possession. “The Demoiselle wishes to learn what has become of her House in the generations since we slept. She also wants to see if anything remains of the lore this very shrine was founded to husband.” Temar doubted that, now he’d seen the place so altered.
Velindre frowned. “I thought Guinalle Tor Priminal was the foremost practitioner of this Artifice?”
“She is,” agreed Temar. “Which is why her first obligation remains to the colony she originally crossed the ocean to succour and support.” The endless frozen years hadn’t changed that; whatever love he might one day win from Guinalle would never outweigh her sense of duty.
The Warrior's Bond Page 4
