Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  History declared without exception: to cross over the threshold of Althain Tower was to be tested and tried, either to break, or to reforge shrinking weakness into the strengths of true character. Yet Luhaine’s expedient transfer had not delivered her to Sethvir. Her needs were met instead by a White Brotherhood adept, who had smiled but answered no questions. The second-floor guest suite was austerely furnished, the swept stone floor warmed with a bright rug, and a south-facing window with diamond panes that let in flooding sunlight. Except for the silence, her room seemed quite ordinary.

  Glendien detected no dread currents of power. Even the burn of the flux lines seemed stilled, which warned her the chamber was shielded. Althain Tower lay on the primary lane that flowed through Atainia, where the Great Circle at Isaer’s old ruin once hosted the council of the centaur guardians. Transverse lines crossed here, which powered the Sorcerer’s Preserve and the axis under the Mathorn Mountains; also the shining track that surged through the old way from Narms, past the marker stone in Daon Ramon Barrens, and the Second Age nexus sited at Ithamon.

  Yet no turbulence blazed through Glendien’s dreams. She sensed no other voice but the wind, whisking across ancient stonework. Restless despite a night’s peaceful sleep, she brushed her red hair for the third time and fretted under the irritation of leaving the tresses unbraided. Never having borne Kyrialt’s child, she had no more right to the clan pattern of s’Taleyn; if the s’Ffalenn name had been gifted a traditional weaving, she had no elder of Arithon’s lineage to guide her.

  ‘Ath above,’ she burst out, as she ripped up a lashing of static. ‘I’d rather a bow to go hunting!’

  Uncertainty coloured her isolation. She noted no outside bustle of comings and goings; nothing important arose to explain why she should be abandoned to her own devices. Sethvir’s hospitality seemed vexingly dull. Her forestborn talent strove, and quite failed, to pierce through the blanketing quiet.

  By contrast, every slight comfort was met before asking, until Glendien felt like a cosseted jewel tucked into a velvet-lined box.

  That impression broke the next morning when a robed adept arrived at her door. He had bright, dark eyes, the brown skin of a tribesman, and a spry stride that outpaced her ascent of the stairs as he escorted her two floors higher up. There, she was admitted to the King’s Chamber and asked to wait on the attendance of a Fellowship Sorcerer. No assurance of welcome soothed her jangled nerves. Instead, her anxiety gave rise to more doubts at the sight of the banners denoting Athera’s five kingdoms. The hearth fire did not ease her mounting dread, in this place. Which of the empty, carved chairs at the ebony table had once seated Torbrand s’Ffalenn? Here also, Rathain’s first caithdein had stood with drawn sword, on the hour the lineage’s founder had knelt to seal his crown oath over his blood descendants.

  Glendien shivered. One day her child might be called to serve in the grandiloquent weight of such footsteps.

  The dyed carpet felt much too rich underneath her irreverent tread. Thick silence itself seemed reproachful. Glendien ran her fingers over the panelling that softened the tower’s stonewall. The curly maple all but sang to her touch, fitted with the uncanny rapport that bespoke Paravian joinery. She could not deny the sharp misery that broke her bravado to tears. In dread fact, she felt unfit. Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn had not chosen her as the mother to bear his first child.

  ‘You still can turn back,’ a mild voice declared from the doorway.

  Breath caught, her pulse pounding, Glendien whirled face about.

  The promised Sorcerer stood at the threshold, watching with steely grey eyes. How long had such powerful stillness been present, unnoticed until he had spoken?

  Keeping her pinned in his earnest regard, the arrival finished his statement. ‘The hour is not yet too late to change your mind and step back. You need not bear the full consequence that will result from your choices at Athir.’

  Glendien swallowed. Temper sparked off the raw flint of her fear as she trembled beneath his close survey. ‘Do I seem that untrustworthy?’

  ‘No.’ Asandir strode fully into the room. Soundless of step, he left the door open, perhaps aware that her forest-bred nerves felt entrapped by closed quarters. His imposing height was clothed in formality: a deep indigo robe bordered with silver that shimmered like summer lightning. He had labourer’s hands, close-trimmed nails, and large knuckles, the impression of capable strength unnervingly callused and ordinary. The Sorcerer accepted her stare. Without comment, he turned one of the ivory-trimmed chairs and sat down. Now settled beneath her regard, he seemed care-worn, even shadowed by signs of a taxing recovery.

  Which insight lent nothing, by way of advantage. His conclusion stayed dauntlessly level. ‘You keep what is promised, and without complaint. I would have said, Glendien, that you are impetuous.’

  She raised her chin. ‘No quality fit to endow a crown heir. My pride can withstand your rejection.’

  One corner of Asandir’s mouth pulled awry. He folded his hands and leaned forward. Lit head to foot by rapt expectation, he urged in silk quiet, ‘Continue. What other faults should you list for my censure?’ As she flushed scarlet, he added, quite mild, ‘Or else say what you actually want. Short and plainly is best, from the heart.’

  The cry of her grief for her dead beloved emerged as fresh tears that welled over. She turned her back. Hoped the crude need for retreat came in time, as the silver and black on emerald green of Rathain’s royal leopard dissolved from her sight in the flood. Worse, her shaking knees threatened to buckle. The courage that should have raised her fighting spirit ebbed under her crushing anguish.

  Perhaps she gasped Kyrialt’s name, after all.

  For suddenly the Sorcerer’s presence was there, looming over her wretched misery. A ghost’s touch clasped her elbow. She was steadied, then upheld without words through the torrent, regardless of acute embarrassment.

  Then Asandir said, ‘You’ve seen everything that was needful, in here. Let’s move our discussion outside. Doubtless both of us would prefer the open air.’

  Despite brimming eyes, Glendien stared upwards in shocked surprise.

  Asandir’s quick smile eased his severe face. ‘Why else do you think I stay out in the field? Sethvir’s the one who likes sitting, mewed up with his piles of books. He’s always preferred his fur buskins and comfort, though if you stay, you’ll have to excuse his loose habit of letting the blizzards dump snow through the casements.’

  Glendien permitted such disarming patter to steer her through the door, and on down the draughty stone stairwell. The Sorcerer allowed her to lean, without comment, as she wavered in threading between the commemorative statues of the Paravians, housed in Althain’s ground-floor chamber. Then the awe raised by yester-year’s majesty fell behind, closed off by the chased panels at the sallyport threshold. The icy shrill of the draughts through the murder holes under the gate arch restored her. Glendien gulped desperate breaths in the cold, while Asandir manned the winch and unbarred the tower’s triple array of defences.

  Then the north wind off the Bittern Desert slapped into her aching lungs. Speech was not expected, through the bracing shock, as Sorcerer and clanswoman stepped out. Together they traversed the heath that surrounded Althain Tower. The sere toss of the grass wore rime-frost, but no snow. The blue sky was combed lace, with cirrus. Early sun shot flickers of brittle gold light on the tossing canes of last season’s briar. Even at midwinter, the air was alive with the rustle of small animals and bird-song. Nesting wrens liked the ivy on Althain’s south wall. Their fluttering, as they gleaned for small insects, seemed to scatter ahead at each footstep. Elsewhere, a jay’s squalled retort gave warning of a soaring hawk.

  Glendien felt her heart lift. Wind flagged her red hair to fresh tangles. The gusts rippled the indigo velvet of Asandir’s mantle, across silence that begged her to talk.

  ‘You’ll snag such fine cloth on the thorns,’ she ventured at testing length.

  ‘Not the first time,
for that.’ The Sorcerer’s comment seemed wryly amused, though a note like iron struck through his calm as he finished, ‘We’ve both survived amid turbulent times. My last set of leathers came back unfit to wear. Sethvir’s sewing replacements. He says any chore that keeps his hands busy helps him sort through his brooding thoughts. You don’t enjoy needlework, do you? Our Warden’s always been secretly crushed when a guest won’t leave him with the mending.’

  Glendien shivered, not from the cold. Arms wrapped at her breast, she had not marked the moment when the Sorcerer’s touch had abandoned her. ‘Should I bear Arithon’s child and stay?’

  ‘I can’t answer that for you.’ Asandir’s ranging stride led to the crest of a hillock. The vales rolled away in serried ranks, wind-swept and mottled with violet haze until the edges blurred into distance. Lancing sunlight kissed the mica-flecked rock, sparkling like stars dropped to earth. The Sorcerer’s voice seemed woven into the enduring grace of the wilderness. ‘You are entitled to ask questions. If I can, I will lend your choice guidance.’

  His piercing whistle slashed the clear air; woke the blast of an answering whinny. Amid the high brush, a black colt raised his head, nostrils blowing and ears pricked in his burr-tangled mane. Young, not yet yearling, he flagged his high tail, then stretched his long legs and galloped. He veered, playing tag with the gusts, and joyously kicked up his heels.

  ‘Show-off,’ Asandir murmured with fondness.

  The animal ploughed to a snorting halt. Eye rolling, he reared. The swift, punching strike of a stockinged foot asserted his bold independence. Then he pranced up to nuzzle the Sorcerer’s fingers and try a swift nip if he could. High crest to flat back, the magnificent creature knew his own worth; was proud to own the place he inhabited. He had a narrow, white snip on his nose; one blue, ghost eye, and one brown, that shone deep and bright with intelligence. ‘You take after your sire,’ Asandir declared. ‘A rare gift, born out of a blood-line even a sorcerer can’t hold for granted.’ Asandir’s attention remained on the horse, where his keen insight might not intimidate. ‘You might start with the child,’ he invited gently.

  ‘My own expectations there scarcely signify.’ Glendien let the young stallion snuffle her hair. ‘She will be herself, if she’s born to this world. You’d know better than I, if she’s fated.’

  The black colt dipped his head. Asandir’s fingers were surprisingly deft, as he feathered through the matted snarls and unstuck the burrs. ‘There were portents enough surrounding her conception,’ he admitted, sparing words that suggested he might hold reservations. ‘This child’s heritage will not be straightforward. Elaira’s presence is well-marked in the weave. If the bloodstock springs from your lineage, and Arithon’s, there was a love summoned that spoke for this spirit. She will bear the mark of that all her days, if you elect to grant birthright. We will raise no child apart from the mother. On that matter, our Fellowship commands no precedent.’

  Glendien watched, while fine velvet picked up a careless cargo of burdock; then flecks of chewed grass, as the horse snorted foam and rubbed his head on the Sorcerer’s sleeve. ‘You don’t stand much on ceremony,’ she dared to observe.

  Asandir grinned. ‘Not since I wash my own clothes in the field.’ He shoved off the horse. Chided, before his braid trim became torn in the playful grip of bared teeth. ‘You! Show some manners. The mares would bite back, for presumption.’

  The colt frisked away, neck high and tail streaming. The Sorcerer’s gaze at last turned and surveyed her. ‘You need to consider what your life would be, without any child born to a marked destiny.’

  Glendien bent her thoughts back to Selkwood. Everywhere, there, she found Kyrialt’s shadow, dogging her unpartnered footsteps. If she returned, barren, she would be expected to meet clan obligation and further her blood-line. Where, after the flower of s’Taleyn, could she find her match in vivacious audacity? Who, after Arithon, had ever stood forward to lock piquant wit with spiced challenge?

  ‘What’s left but sorrow, awaiting in Alland?’ Again Glendien’s eyes welled up and spilled over. ‘Though surely I owe Lord Erlien s’Taleyn the duty of bearing the news of a valiant son’s death.’

  Heedless of tear stains, Asandir closed her into the warmth of his mantle. ‘My dear, you need not concern yourself. The difficult errand’s accomplished. Luhaine’s been our voice for such consolation, though truly, the High Earl was advised of the loss well beforetime. The gift of his son was Prince Arithon’s survival, as Shand’s seeress foretold from the outset.’

  ‘Then I cannot go back.’ Glendien chose her path, not to become the sorry reminder of a young man’s life, cut short for crown duty. ‘Kyrialt’s sacrifice would have this child secure from the reach of Prince Arithon’s enemies.’

  ‘Then stay as you wish.’ Asandir smiled. ‘Be welcome without any strings. Sethvir’s lackadaisical, stocking his larder. You won’t pine for excuse to go hunting.’

  Only one question remained left to ask. ‘Will Prince Arithon ever –’

  ‘No, Glendien. Never.’ Asandir’s interruption stayed firm. ‘Your daughter will shoulder her fate in due time. She must find her way without the concern of her father’s aware interference.’

  Whether the child might become Rathain’s next heir, the Sorcerer also called Kingmaker refused to say. Though the gleam in his far-sighted eyes well suggested his vision might measure the probability, he turned the resolute clanswoman back towards Althain Tower. ‘Come in from the cold, Glendien. Sethvir has tea waiting, and I’ve got another visit to pay before I take leave in departure.’

  Davien had not strayed far, since the hour he wakened, restored to flesh and returned to Athera. North of Althain Tower, the incessant winds raked the Bittern Waste into ridges of swept, knife-edged dunes. There, Seshkrozchiel dug herself a deep wallow to scour off soot and polish her dazzling scales. Once clean, she rested, snout laid on her tail fluke, with her wings spread to bask in the sun. The dreaming fire that shimmered off her erect dorsal spines lazed in coils, reduced to a glimmer.

  The Sorcerer her bargain still collared was found, seated, back leaned against her left fore-claw. He wore the same summer dress, each button and tie re-created from the hour of the misfortunate gathering: a lynx-gold jerkin and chocolate-brown hose, tucked into neat, calf-skin boots. If his silk shirt was too thin, the rippling warmth thrown off by the dragon drove back winter’s chill when Asandir made his appearance. He called, sliding down the slope into the hollow as the day advanced towards midafternoon.

  Davien’s sardonic, dark eyes regarded the indigo robe, now greyed with grit at the hem-line. ‘You shredded your last set of leathers, again,’ he declared by way of tart greeting.

  ‘I do have crown business still left at Athir,’ Asandir said with mild reproof. He folded his lean length of leg and sat down, unconcerned for his court-styled velvet: his upcoming bout of lane travel would shake out the residual dust. Less sanguine over his horse-slobbered cuffs, he admitted, ‘Though a rinse in a stream would not be amiss, in the meantime.’ A glance sidewards encompassed a fine, lynx-gold garment, also now a bit less than immaculate. ‘You’d forgotten the bother?’

  Davien laughed. ‘Never.’ He rubbed his solid hands against drawn-up shins, pleased, and treasuring the sensation. Before his colleague could ask, he tossed back tousled hair, and said outright, ‘I am not going back to announce my prodigal return in Althain Tower’s library just yet.’

  Asandir waited. If he looked to have the stilled patience of stone, his appearances could be deceptive.

  ‘You aren’t breathing,’ Davien trounced with shrewd joy. ‘Don’t say I’ve dashed your bright hope for a clinging reunion with Sethvir?’

  Asandir raised an eyebrow. Behind him, the orb of the dragon was open, as scalding through cloth as noon sunlight. ‘I was waiting, hands folded, with meek expectation,’ he amended without ruffled nerves. His polite nod acknowledged Seshkrozchiel. Then he added, ‘Sethvir chose not to come. He’s too busy sewing.
When you’re done paying court to hackling sensation, you’ve ever been quick to declare yourself.’

  ‘Luhaine always snaps the hooked bait like a trout.’ Davien showed his teeth, very nearly a grin. ‘Shall we by-pass the stickling history and cut to the chase? When the dragon has rested, she’s agreed we shall mend the two grimwards that still need attention without your assistance. I’ll retire to Kewar to repair my own leathers. Though in passing, you may tell Luhaine this: he can ask for my help anytime he wants Prime Selidie and her sisterhood roped back to heel.’

  Asandir laughed. ‘Let her try meddling with Arithon again, don’t rest on your luck. I’ll be there before you.’ If no mention was made to approach Kharadmon, the field Sorcerer was wise enough to let the unhealed past bide without pressure. ‘If you won’t take my thanks, then find me content. Isfarenn’s colt needs his care-free years to mature, and grimwards afoot are no party.’

  Both Sorcerers stood. Further words were not needed. But for the first time since the bloody rebellion that brought massacre to the high kings, a wrist clasp of amity sealed their brisk parting.

  Dawn at Athir arrived with spectacular beauty, a blaze to set the very world afire above the Cildein’s sparkling surf. Over the fathomless dance of the ocean, the lucent sky brightened, a golden horizon blended in light to a zenith of cloudless indigo. Two figures awaited on the grass knoll beside the Paravian focus, when the Fellowship Sorcerer stepped through the crackling burst of the flux tide at daybreak. Four transfers across latitude from Atainia left his indigo mantle spotlessly neat. Except for a few ragged ends of singed hair, his presence seemed steadfast as ever.

  ‘Asandir! You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ Dakar strode forward, altogether relieved that his difficult watch should be ending. If his squared shoulders reflected a deepened sense of purpose, he still itched to spill the fresh gossip. ‘His Grace recalls nothing beyond the awareness that Elaira’s love was the power that recalled him.’