Читать книгу Peril’s Gate - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 23

Outside the barred door to the Prime’s private residence, Elaira braced her back to the courtyard wall. She sucked in steady breaths of chill air to slow the raced beat of her heart. Around her, the sounds of routine industry filed an edge on her acid-stripped nerves. She could not shake her looming sense of disaster. The facts all converged, unremitting: in the white wilds of Daon Ramon Barrens, five cities dispatched armed companies on forced march to take down Arithon s’Ffalenn. Yet no pending sense of the world’s smashed equilibrium ruffled the winterbound city of Highscarp. A silvery trill of horsebells jingled down the lane beyond the gate. A servant banged open a second-story shutter and slapped the dust out of a bolster. Overhead, an ice crystal scumbling of cloud diffused the pyrite gleam of noon sunlight. The gusts turned northeast and smelled of the sea, sure signs that a gale would rage in before nightfall. The high mountain passes would lie sifted in snow, while the ridges shed their cover of drifts like fumaroles of blown smoke.

Storm and heartache came in lockstep with her mind-linked awareness: Arithon s’Ffalenn was still crossing the Baiyen, the conditions he suffered soon to become an onslaught of unalloyed misery.

As cuttingly cold, to Elaira’s bare hand, was the quartz sphere Prime Selidie had given her. The binding directive attached to its custody offered no chink for compromise. The new Matriarch had matched her most desperate move, and her wits still recoiled on the outcome.

‘The bitterest enemy is myself, then,’ Arithon had once flung back when the Fellowship Sorcerer, Asandir, had pinned him on a fine point of principle.

For Elaira, who loved him, flesh as one flesh, understanding of his anguish bore down without mercy, the razor edge of her predicament resharpened by Sethvir’s past assurance that she would be party to the Prince of Rathain’s final salvation or downfall.

‘Was this what you meant?’ Her appeal to the Warden’s earth-sensed awareness went unanswered, while the unkind wind off the bay tore her voiceless, and her knees refused to stop shaking.

‘Oathsworn?’ a boy’s timid voice addressed, breathless. ‘Initiate, do you wish a horse saddled for riding?’

Elaira stirred and regarded the young groom, her slate eyes still deadpan with shock.

The boy chewed his lip, then plowed ahead, gallant. ‘The mare that brought you needs rest and feed. Should the house loan you a fresh mount?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Elaira pushed away from the wall, resolute as the first, unwanted decision snapped scattered thoughts back to focus. ‘I won’t be going anywhere I can’t walk, but thanks for your gentleman’s kindness.’

The quandary posed by her changed obligations presented a future fraught with bloodletting thorns. Where Arithon was concerned, she knew better than to trust Selidie’s oath on the Great Waystone. Lirenda’s warning concerning the new Prime had not been mentioned lightly. Wary of every unseen subtlety that might lurk to entrap her, Elaira chose to make her way without help. She dared not accept either post mounts or shelter from the too-open hand of the sisterhood.

‘You have a mother? A family?’ she asked of the horseboy.

His grin showed missing gaps where his lost molars grew in.

‘Take this for their comfort.’ She pressed a worn copper into the child’s palm, offering the courtesy due from a guest stranger, and not an initiate sister whose order demanded unstinting service. ‘Off you go,’ she added, before he could shout his effusive gratitude. ‘Fetch me the pack off my saddle, and see that the mare gets the rest she deserves.’

The delay to reclaim her belongings chafed at her ripe sense of urgency. Elaira gauged the entangling pressures that might offer pitfalls and setbacks. If she wished to forestall the obligations her low rank would allow the sisterhouse peeress, she must act now, before Highscarp’s seniors discovered the Prime’s grant of autonomy, or caught wind of her unorthodox assignment.

She descended the high road from the bluff on foot. Whipped by rising wind, she threaded between a cake seller’s cart and two wagons and sheltered behind a smokehouse’s woodpile. There, in brisk care, she bundled the burdensome scrying sphere into a silk scarf from her pack. Next, she counted her handful of coins, earned in the honest practice of dispensing simples and cough remedies in the wayside taverns. Two silvers, eight copper were scarcely enough to meet her critical needs. She would have to drive desperate, hard bargains to test the scope of the Prime’s two-edged promise of independence.

As her first defined act to invoke that autonomy, Elaira tore off the bronze buttons she kept for luck, then gave her thick, purple cloak to the first beggar she found whining for alms in the street. ‘Just turn the damned thing inside out,’ she insisted, as the shivering creature fingered the distinctive color in apprehensive distrust of its Koriani origins. ‘You’ll stay just as warm, the lining’s bleached wool, and no one will pay much attention.’

She asked for directions, found the common market, and spent her store of silver on a sturdy, used cloak of good weave that would be respectable once it was cleaned. From the smith’s, for a half cent, she acquired a tarred leather bucket with a broken strap. The winds now were rising, and tasted of spume. Puddles wore glazings of rime ice. Like chalk marks under a poured-lead sky, gulls roosted on rooftrees and pilings and chimneys, breasts fluffed against inbound bad weather. Elaira pressed on to the dockside stalls, where seamy old women with crabbed hands and sharp eyes sold oddments of bone and glass jewelry, pomanders and luck charms, and the fish-scale talismans made to ward drowning prized by enlisted sailhands.

The ramshackle awnings cracked in the gusts. A shrill couple argued in the tenements overhead, while a dog pack nosed garbage in the gutter. Elaira perused tables of knucklebones and brooches, her flyaway hair tucked under her cloak, and her saddle pack guarded against cutpurses. Craftsmen and tosspots jostled their way past, and a street minstrel scraped jigs on a fiddle. At length, she found the item she sought amid a stall with tied bundles of cedar, and braided lanyards with hens’ feet, and fiend bands of stamped tin and strung pebbles.

‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I’m in need of your help.’

The old woman wrapped in faded plaid shawls perked erect, both eyes pearly with cataracts, and her arthritic hands clasped to her wash-leather satchel. ‘Dearie, speak up. Henlyie’s deaf as a post.’

Elaira smiled. ‘I could whisper, and still you could hear me.’

The old herb witch blinked. She loosened a crabbed fist, and reached out, unerring. Her swollen fingers jinked the quartz crystal nested like a frost shard among her ragtag array of queer wares. ‘Stone speaks, for you. How much can you pay?’

The ancient bronze buttons scored Elaira’s clamped palm as she answered in trepidation. ‘I can offer two coppers, and your pick of the rarest herbs in my satchel.’

Old Henlyie sucked a breath through gapped teeth. ‘That desperate, are ye?’

Elaira shut her eyes, while the wind whined through the carved eaves overhead, and the thrash of the breakers against the seawall muttered under the boisterous shouts of the stonecutters on leave from the quarries. ‘Mother, if you only knew.’

The old woman peered through fogged marble eyes, attuned to some cue beyond sight. ‘Healer trained, are ye? Then ye know well enough, a true quartz will defend against lies and dishonesty. Go on, dearie. Take the crystal you need. Just give someone needy the eight silvers she’s worth when you manage to mend your lapsed fortune.’

‘Ath’s blessing on you, mother,’ Elaira replied. ‘I’ll see your kindness repaid tenfold.’ She accepted the crystal, and left in its place a tin of her own spelled emollient, made to ease the pain of stiffened joints.

The old woman touched the tin, lifted it, and sniffed at the contents. A smile touched her face, easing the wrinkles pinched at the corners of her eyes. ‘There’s a boardinghouse with red shutters on Cod Street. The landlady there may let her attic for a penny, if you offer to attend the complaints of her guests.’ The tin disappeared into the folds of the shawls, and a crabbed finger shook in admonishment. ‘No, dearie. I have lodgings elsewhere, and no memory left for recording elaborate recipes. What meager craft I still practice is more suited to amulets, besides.’

‘Then I owe you my heartfelt gratitude. Bless your days.’ Elaira gathered the quartz and moved thankfully on her way.

Hungry, but in too much hurry to eat, she squeezed past the hawkers who sold bread, hot fish cakes, and sausage. The alley she descended led to the seawall.

The bay was a heaving cauldron of spindrift. Green, foaming breakers reared up, steep sides glistening, then hammered an uneven percussion of spray against the riprap that fronted the harbor. Wheeling birds landed in the sluice of the runoff, pecking for crustaceans stranded like jewels amid knots of jetsam and weed. Elaira braved the stripping brunt of the winds and filled her tarred bucket with seawater. In shrewd afterthought, she added a gleaner’s harvest of kelp.

If she planned to earn bread treating quarrymens’ pulped knuckles, she would need to replenish her tincture of iodine.

The owner of the red-shuttered boardinghouse was a vivacious grandmother whose shrewd glance measured the cut of her seal riding boots, then the quality tanning of the leather pack slung over her cloaked shoulder. ‘One pence was summer rent,’ she insisted, and held out her palm for two coppers.

Elaira gave in and paid her last coins, well aware hard-nosed bargaining would not prevail on a night with an easterly brewing. Her work required a roof over her head. Soup and coarse bread was included with lodging, and if she did not mind standing in line for the privilege, she could use the common washtub in the laundry.

‘Just show me inside,’ she answered, too chilled to stand on the icy stone step any longer.

The grandame regarded the brimming bucket askance, then grudgingly widened the door and admitted her. Elaira followed her shuffling step over worn runners of carpet, then up a servant’s back stair. The attic landing led into a tiny room with a salt-streaked dormer window. The blankets on the truckle bed were moth-eaten, but clean. Beyond a washstand appointed with a battered tin cup and pitcher, the board floor was bare. Impressed by the size of the dust batts caught in the unswept corners, Elaira sincerely hoped the last occupant had earned her keep carding and spinning.

‘Candles cost extra,’ the landlady informed. ‘Water’s drawn from the crank well in the yard. Fetch and haul what you need for yourself.’

‘Thank you.’ Elaira stepped over the scuffed wooden threshold, cloak tucked against the drafts that sang through the gapped panes, and rippled the cobwebs over her head. Her breath scribed white plumes in the gray filtered light, and the basin wore armor-clad ice. She deposited her bucket of seawater and kelp, then latched the plank door after the landlady’s departure. Still badly shaken, she scarcely cared that the garret room was unheated. Far worse, to try a course of questionable practice in the precinct of a Koriani sisterhouse.

‘Dharkaron avert!’ She was no small bit frightened by her plan to enact reckless upset to Selidie’s expectations.

Elaira squared her shoulders, firmed quaking nerves, and raked the wet kelp from the bucket. She piled the mass by the frozen basin. Next, she unhooked the tin cup from the washstand and scooped it full of raw seawater. The tarred bucket remained under half-full, its handspan depth just sufficient. Elaira dug through her pack, fingers shaking. She removed the silk-wrapped weight of the scrying sphere. The dread burn of its active sigils of command cast a bone-chilling ache, even through layered cloth.

In naked trepidation, on a pent breath of terror, she eased the veiled quartz into the saltwater bath in the bucket.

Sparks flew from first contact. A whine of released power threw off a hot wind as the sigils of binding tore asunder. Elaira jerked back a singed hand, while the water spat and roiled to the blast of unwound coils of energy. Crouched on her heels, her blistered hand cradled, she held on to hope that the quartz sphere could withstand the liberating force as the sigils dissolved without cracking.

‘Be free,’ she whispered in earnest encouragement. ‘Let the spells of coercion be lifted.’

If the sphere had been loaned to help track Rathain’s prince, she would employ her own skills, leaving no loophole for unasked assistance through the seals of a preset binding. There would be no fertile ground for slipped steps, no avenue left for blind snares. The Prime’s bitter bargain to guard Arithon’s life would not be won upon hidden traps or sly trickery. By nightfall this day, Elaira avowed she would cast off all resource upon which to hang the obligation of her order’s oath of debt. If the hour ever came when for wisdom and compassion she must claim her given option to betray her heart’s love, she would use her own power by free choice. Though she die in the effort, she would shoulder a future that relied on naught else but the course of her cognizant will.

The steps she must tread held no recorded precedent. Each minute brought dreadful uncertainty. The quartz she had cast to its fate in the pail offered no safe reassurance. While it thrashed and rattled and shook through its passage to a cleared state of neutrality, Elaira sweated and hoped. The striking eruption of violence appalled her, as the virtue of salt water stripped out the yoked power of uncounted active sigils. Every instinct shrilled with alarm. The process appeared to be lasting too long. She had been a six-year-old child when the order’s seniors in Morvain had inducted her for her talents. All her Koriani arts had been learned by rote, her specialized experience aligned for an herbalist’s practice.

Closed in the barren solitude of a two-penny attic chamber, the quartz sphere her need had put to the test delivered a stark lesson in humility. Elaira pressed shaken hands to her heart. ‘Ath’s mercy, forgive!’ She realized how little she understood the coiling depths of the powers she engaged day to day, without thought, sheltered beneath the insular traditions fostered by the sisterhood.

Elaira endured, helpless and afraid as she measured the shocking scope of her ignorance. Compassionate care proved inadequate; her knowledge of healing fell woefully short. She had no advanced skills to ease the crystal through its rough passage. The efficacy of her talent fed through runes and seals, harnessed by the time-tested rituals that aligned cause to effect and bridged the veil in chained constructs that magnified will into raised power.

‘Bide whole!’ she entreated the traumatized sphere. ‘Please. Don’t let my folly lead to lasting harm.’

As though speech keyed response, the tempest in the bucket subsided. The churned water smoothed and settled to rest, with the crystal’s clear structure unfractured. Elaira crouched on her heels, her limpid relief spiked through by renewed trepidation. The release just effected would not escape notice. Any flux of shed energy deflected the lane current, and the dispersal of worked sigils always released a distinct signature. The peer sister assigned to keep routine watch would recognize that imprint. She might wait until sundown and list the incident amid her routine report. Or she might be a scryer gifted with foresight and sound the alarm at the prompt of sharp-eyed experience.

Elaira wiped dampened palms on her sleeves, then unstuck the wisped hair from her temples. Time was her enemy. If she paused for one moment to nurse her faint nerves, a Koriani senior might break down her door under outraged instruction to stop her. For the willful step of blanking the scrying sphere posed but the first stage of necessity. Her next course of action was going to spark fury, if not an incensed cry for arraignment.

She shoved back to her feet. A questing sense of Arithon’s awareness ranged in chills over her skin. She distanced his concern, too terrified to dwell on the chance of obstructive ramifications. Worst case, she might face the supreme punishment for oathbreaking, if Prime Selidie’s promise of unfettered choice did not allow her to claim full initiative. Elaira braced against the washstand, too wrung with dread to question the price she might pay for unbending self-honesty. The tin cup with its fateful cargo of seawater all but slipped from her nerveless grasp. She forced her wrist steady. One by one, she stamped down the gathering fears that threatened to shred her resolve. Her love for Prince Arithon was caught in the breach. She dared do no less than employ concrete safeguards.

Elaira unhooked the silver chain at her neck and drew off the strung quartz that served as her personal spell crystal. Talisman for her power, carrier of the seals and sigils which held the focal point for her talent, the sliver of stone had been her companion since the hour she passed her novice initiation. Today, the flaring warmth of the stone’s presence engendered no surge of confidence. Set against the Prime Matriarch’s insidious designs, its familiar quiet radiance masked pitfalls and dangers. Elaira could not evade the harsh truth. The crystal itself belonged to the order. It would be reclaimed and cleared at her death, then reissued to another enchantress. The fact its possession was a borrowed resource could pose an unseen liability. Elaira poised the tin cup. Shaking, she prepared to reject the temptation that its everyday usage might serve to trap Arithon under Koriani obligation.

She would clear the quartz, living, and unbind its attunements, and bear the gamut of unknown consequences.

Poised over salt water, the crystal looked innocent, a flashy bauble that sheared light into rainbow refractions.

In reality, its function sustained an intricate balance of forces. A personal spell quartz bonded with its wearer. The complexity of its matrix evolved with use, often aligned with prerogatory directives imprinted by the will of the Prime’s Senior Circle. Elaira fought ebbing courage. Twenty-eight years ago, Morriel Prime had selected her for longevity. The crystal held haplessly dangling had bindings laid into its fields that sustained and renewed living tissue. To clear out the quartz would disrupt patterned energies, with the recoiling effects of unsanctioned release rewritten in her hapless flesh.

All her experience with healing and craft lent no guidance to predict the near future. She had no grace for soul-searching thought, and no safe chance to seek deeper knowledge. The cleansing properties of salt were most final, and utterly unselective. Once the crystal was submerged, the spells of suspension that revitalized her body would unwind, then bleed away into entropy.

She could but hope, as she steeled nerves and will, that the shock of release would not kill her. To leave Arithon’s fate to Lirenda’s design posed the potential for outright disaster.

Eyes tightly closed, Elaira tried and failed to calm the rushed pound of her heart. The rasping itch of wool mantle against skin; the draw of each breath through her lungs; the tempestuous shrilling of wind: all subtle sensation conspired to unstring her resolve and mire her in hopeless dread. Life tied her too strongly. The looming fear of greeting death’s shadow urged her to shrink from impeccable commitment. Worse, she might live, wasted or crippled by backlash thrown off as the linked sigils in her aura dispersed.

‘Ath help me, I can’t do this.’

Yet even as she wavered, stark honesty stung her. At the crux, she loved Arithon more. The integrity that cemented his trust crossed beyond life, went past nerve, flesh, and bone, and the bounds of sane limits and safety.

Elaira released the dangling chain. Hard braced for the shock of inflexible fate, she let her quartz take the plunge toward salt water.

The same instant, a firm hand closed over her slacked fingers. A half-sensed, fast movement, and a soft sigh of cloth intercepted the crystal’s immersion. A gentle voice chided, ‘There are better ways to establish the safeguards you seek.’

Elaira recoiled, instinctively too wise to scream. Her wide opened eyes met a white-robed, male figure who stood as though bathed in moonlight. His grip on her hand was warm, and not harsh. She could have pulled free on a wish, had she chosen. But the unearthly calm of his presence was not either forceful or threatening. The silver and gold ciphers that patterned his hood marked him out as an adept of Ath’s Brotherhood.

‘How did you get here?’ she gasped, stupid and stammering with shock.

His smile lit the bare room like new sunlight. ‘Sethvir of the Fellowship thought you needed help.’ He released her fingers, then pried the tin cup from the frozen grasp of her hand. The fluid economy of poured water graced each move as he set the tin next to the basin. Then, his brown, almond eyes deep and grave, he regarded the spell crystal caught in the cloth-wrapped palm of his hand. ‘Do you mind if I hold this?’

‘By all means, be my guest.’ Elaira stepped back, folded at the knees, and dropped rump first on the cot. Dust flew from straw ticking. She sneezed, blotted wet cheeks with the back of her wrist, then surveyed her uncanny visitor. ‘If I had a chair, I’d invite you to sit. Since I don’t, please feel free to share my perch on the landlady’s mattress.’

Beyond middle age, Ath’s adept inclined his head, then pushed back the folds of his hood. Graying ash hair tumbled over his shoulders. His face was strong boned, and serene as rubbed ivory, and his knuckles, workworn as a farmer’s. ‘Thank you. Be sure I won’t stay one moment more than I’m welcome.’

‘Sit then.’ Elaira slid over and made room. ‘Why didn’t I hear you come in?’

His step on bare floorboards was light, but not soundless; his weight settled like snowfall beside her. His clothes smelled of balsam, and his laughter fell rich as the deep shade of tropical night. ‘Well, you didn’t because the gateway that brought me resides in the crystal you just claimed from the market.’

Elaira opened her mouth, closed it, and forcefully stilled her clamor of thunderstruck nerves. ‘Then I need not be concerned that the peer seniors in my order should suspect I have mystical company?’

The initiate opened his palm and revealed her quartz pendant nestled inside a halo of grainy, gold light. ‘You need fear for nothing. This room, and our words from here forward are as a dream, one step removed from the reality you know. Sigils can’t breach this octave of vibration, far less carve a foothold for impact.’

‘Traithe once built a fire,’ Elaira allowed, too stressed and too tired to grapple nonlinear logic. ‘Since your time is a gift too precious to waste, I’ll let you explain without my green questions and curiosity.’

‘On the contrary.’ Settled at ease on his end of the cot, one shoulder braced to the wall, the adept seemed a figure loomed from ghostly silk and spun light from ethereal vision. ‘Time is an illusion shaped by need and belief. The trust you have embraced for Prince Arithon’s sake cannot be sustained without honesty. I’m here to open a doorway to knowledge, beginning with explanations.’

Elaira’s expression of owlish thought broke under the relentless strain. She arose and paced. The cramped garret could scarcely contain the scope of the terrors that threatened to shatter her. Since the fires of Sithaer yawned at her feet, she opened the point that could catapult her into trouble. ‘I made no conscious appeal to Sethvir.’

‘You did not.’ Ath’s adept tracked her agitation, amused, but not patronizing. Aware her question scratched only the surface, he answered her core of concern. ‘Your Prime Matriarch has been given no grounds to serve punishment, unless you can be taken to task for acquiring a piece of rock crystal. No rule forbids you. Yet there’s a quirk in your order’s history that’s only revealed to those in the highest ranks. Your major focusing jewels, and all personal quartz crystals held in Koriani use, were never mined on Athera.’

Elaira poised against the ice-etched panes of the dormer, her level brows pinched with reflection. ‘The stones were brought in when mankind begged sanctuary? Then those crystals won’t be tied by the compact?’

‘More.’ Smile vanished, the adept met and matched her determined stance. ‘Those crystals are not of Athera. Therefore they exist outside the scope of Sethvir’s earth-sense, as well.’

The cold little garret seemed suddenly dimmer, though sundown was two hours away. Elaira tucked her fingers under her cloak to ward off a creeping chill. ‘Are you telling me Althain’s Warden cannot see them at all?’

The adept denied nothing. ‘More to the point, Sethvir’s gift grants him intimate contact with those crystals whose being evolved on Athera. Through the one the crone gifted, he captured the echoed cry of your tormented emotion. In his wisdom, he deduced your intent to be clear of the sigils of power your order enacts to imprint the face of creation. The step you just took on your own strength of character has opened an alternate path. Put simply, you asked. Ath’s grace returns answers. My presence offers the means to pursue a gateway to higher understanding.’

Elaira swept back to her perch on the pallet, her gray eyes wide and intense. The first, incredulous tremor of excitement cut through clammy fear as she grasped the frayed threads of her courage. ‘You are offering me power without strings to the order, that I might use for Prince Arithon’s defense?’

‘True power is neither given nor taught,’ the adept said in mild correction. ‘The key to the great mysteries is a gift to be claimed, arisen from wakened knowledge of the self. The course of discovery must be your own. I can serve as a mouthpiece for truth. You must draw the map. My words may affirm your first footsteps.’

Too cautious to trust fully, given her assigned charge, Elaira pounced on the glaring discrepancy. ‘That’s why you spared my quartz from being cleared in salt water?’

‘No.’ The eagle’s gaze trained upon her stayed placid. ‘That act was done on behalf of Sethvir.’

He would not elaborate. Ath’s adepts were unyielding with confidences, and this one volunteered no more insights. His kindly expression masked patience like rock, a firmness disarmingly gloved in compassion that would make its will known without force.

Elaira tipped her head back against the board wall, her fingers tight clasped to lock down her desperate uncertainty. She felt too tired and small for this task, and her wisdom, too young, or else bound too narrow by the didactic constraints of her order. The moan of the wind in the eaves and the distant shouts from the harborside offered no anchor upon which to hang the drift of her unmoored thoughts. If her sweating anxiety was not crisis enough, the intrusive creak of a step on the stair jolted her to alarm.

The adept quelled her panic. ‘Dear one, don’t worry. That’s only a servant bringing the meal that comes with the cost of your lodging. The grandmother who owns this house thought you looked thin.’ As the arrival knocked, he encouraged, ‘Open the door, you’re quite safe. The kitchen boy sent up with the tray won’t see any trace of my presence.’

Elaira returned a look of raised eyebrows, then arose and crossed the plank floor. Each movement felt awkward, all angles and noise before the adept’s immaculate presence. Nor did his promise of anonymity fall short. The boy at the threshold proved painfully shy. Eyes glued to the floor, he passed her the tray with a few breathless words concerning the house tradition of hospitality.

‘Please thank your grandmother for her generosity.’ Elaira’s warm smile raised the boy to a flush.

‘Her kindness won’t count if she catches me slacking.’ He bolted downstairs, no doubt more unsettled by the fact she was spell trained, and a healer.

Left bearing a tray that was prodigiously laden, Elaira eased the door closed with her elbow. The bar was rendered unnecessary with an adept as her visitor. Since the room had no table, she could do nothing else but set the food on the pallet between them. Tempted by the rich odors of steamed mutton, fish soup, two loaves of brown bread, and last season’s apples stewed in syrup and vinegar, Elaira recovered her humor.

‘I do hope you’re hungry,’ she invited her guest.

‘I’m content as I am.’ The adept’s courtesy was instinctive, as though his ear stayed more closely attuned to the scream of the wind clawing over the roof slates. ‘Save what you can carry. You’ll need sustenance on your journey.’

Caught dunking a heel of bread in the soup, Elaira glanced up, surprised. ‘Journey? I’d thought to work healing in Highscarp until thaws.’

The adept turned his head. His desertbred eyes were unreadable in the storm gleam from the dormer, cut through the backdrop of gloom. ‘You could do that. Or, if you wish to set foot beyond reach of your order, you might consider taking sanctuary. Our hostel accepts travelers. You must take the road toward Eastwall, anyway, if your Prime’s charge sends you into Daon Ramon.’

Elaira bit into the bread, her methodical manner masking the bent of deep thoughts. ‘My order frowns upon hostels,’ she said slowly. ‘Fourth-rank seniors claim that quartz crystals become altered if they are carried inside of your gates.’

The adept watched her, his settled quiet grown profound.

Tempted to walk the first steps of a riddle, Elaira rose to the challenge. ‘Crystals change. Why? You will answer questions?’

‘I will tell you truth,’ the adept amended. ‘The primary Law of the Major Balance states that where there is substance, or energy, consciousness exists also. Self-awareness in all things is Ath’s unconditional gift, no matter the form of expression. Our Brotherhood keeps Ath’s law before that of man. Therefore, any consciousness that finds the way inside our precinct is restored to its sacrosanct right of unfettered being.’

‘Then the crystal kept under your province is set free,’ Elaira concluded. The bread crust rested, forgotten in her hand, while her searching gaze sifted through the faint gold halo of luminosity released by the adept’s tranquil presence. ‘And what passes your gates abides first by Ath’s law. Koriani power, then, cannot cross your threshold. I could enact the Prime’s will concerning Arithon s’Ffalenn, and incur no tie of indebtedness to the order?’

‘Those truths are self-evident, under the Law of the Major Balance. That precept holds the conscious will of all beings as sacred and therefore inviolate. I give you a parable.’

The adept paused, head tipped in tacit inquiry until he received her clear word to proceed. ‘Very well. Two men rode horses into a hostel of Ath’s Brotherhood. One was townborn, and his horse suffered a bridle and saddle, and was made obedient to his needs through domination and fear. The other man was clanblood, and drifter. His horse bore both saddle and rider without any bridle, or restraint by means of compulsion. Once inside our gates, both animals were stripped of their tack. They were left to do as their nature required. The townsman’s horse cantered into the hills, and never returned, though a chase was mounted for days in the effort to recapture lost property. The drifter’s horse remained standing at the gates. That one whinnied his glad greeting at his friend’s return. One horse had a master, and the other shared a companion. Ath’s freedom may be taken, or it may be given in accord with the law of free will.’

Elaira reached out of instinct and groped at the space where the quartz had hung, chained to her neck. Embarrassed, she swallowed. Beyond interest in eating, she set down the bread crust and regarded the adept who, apparently, had come at the Warden of Althain’s behest.

‘Sethvir believed that I needed protection. Since he acted to stop me from clearing my quartz, I need to see much more clearly. Can you lend understanding? There are complexities involved with this issue that I’m not wise enough to address.’

The adept inclined his head. ‘Brave lady, had you cleared your crystal, there would have been trouble indeed. I came here as Sethvir’s emissary, but I must serve as Ath’s order demands. Your quartz deserves freedom, except its own will has granted you deference. It prefers to remain a Koriani tool, that you may preserve your given trust with the one known as Arithon s’Ffalenn. Stone is patient. It bides lightly in time. Count yourself honored. This crystal spirit has given you the accolade of naming you as a companion. Therefore, since you planned to relinquish your claim, I suggest you let me take the burden of carrying out its preferred intent. With your permission, I will bear the quartz back to your sisterhouse. Let it remain in the peeress’s hands until you can safely resume your oathbound charge of its keeping.’

‘I would be grateful, as well as content.’ Self-conscious and flushed, Elaira pursued her dropped bread crust. Through the moment she required to recover her aplomb, the adept vanished without sound.

She started, glanced up, searched the shadowy space he had occupied. No visible trace remained of his presence, only a tactile patch of left warmth where he had sat on the coverlet. No small bit shaken that her spell crystal was also gone, Elaira swore like a fishwife. She had scarcely begun to ask questions.

Then, practical enough not to wallow in self-pity until the fish soup got cold and lost savor, she addressed the task of finishing off the perishable portion of her supper.

In hindsight, the adept had ceded her with fertile ground for new thought. Not all of her power derived from Koriani teaching. In the course of expanding her study of healing, independence had brought her odd bits of hedge lore. She had once learned a hill grandmother’s method of setting up wards using field stones. In principle, that knowledge might apply to a quartz, though the ranging of vibration directed by crude cantrips would become glass clear, and far stronger. By morning, the sphere in the salt bucket would be cleansed. She could borrow upon knowledge shared from Arithon’s trained mastery and attempt to engage its Named spark of awareness. In addition, she had the untapped potential in the crystal point given by the talisman maker in the market.

If the adepts’ store of wisdom might open an alternative way to access her natural-born talent, she must gather fresh courage, and against every obstacle, shoulder the risk in pursuit.

‘Fiends plague and Dharkaron’s fell Chariot, but Selidie Prime and Lirenda are going to be furious!’

Raised to devilish good cheer by the prospect of being a thorn in the side of high-caste Koriani authority, Elaira mopped the last broth from her bowl. She devoured the plate of stewed apples. Then, wildly reckless, she commandeered her last cloth length of linen for bandaging and packed the leftover victuals into her satchel.

Outside, the silver-plate gleam of last daylight was already rapidly failing. Black runners of storm cloud drove in off the sea. The first, gale-force gusts slapped and battered the dormer’s dilapidated shutters. The racket drummed a demon’s tattoo against the bass-note pound of the surf boiling into the seawall.

At least savage weather would discourage the sisterhouse peeress from rousting the poor quarter for a renegade. Elaira stifled her wild burst of laughter as she imagined the outrage raised by Ath’s adept when he knocked to deliver her spell crystal. Too bone weary to lug buckets for a hot-water bath, she steeled herself and settled for a bracing, cold wash from the basin.

Then she curled up under the blanket on the pallet and let her thoughts spiral toward sleep.

Before midnight, the storm broke. Elaira started out of unsettled dreams. She lay wakeful, strained and wary at each muted call of the watch from the street three stories below. Her overkeyed nerves would not let her rest. Worry circled her core of frustration. Over the whine of wind-driven ice, she ached for Arithon and Fionn Areth, one set on the run and exposed to cruel weather high in the Skyshiel passes, and the other gone outside her ken. While the dark fed anxieties that chafed her resolve to defeat the Prime’s Matriarch’s new plot, Elaira lamented her lowly third-rank status.

She had no means to access the Skyron aquamarine; nor could she breach its warded box and drag its dire weight through the gates of a hostel of Ath’s Brotherhood.

If she traveled the high road to Eastwall and claimed temporary sanctuary, then Ath’s order and the Law of the Major Balance might honor her born right to freedom. But the measure of reprieve from the Prime’s reach and power could last only while she was sequestered. As long as the major focus crystal of the order held the bound record of her oath, she could not clear her imprinted Name from the matrix. The autonomy she had sworn into Koriani service would stay subject to Selidie’s power.

Winter 5670