Читать книгу Peril’s Gate - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 24

Asandir’s night return to Althain Tower occurred without greeting or fanfare. He emerged from the flaring blue static of the focus circle to find the candles cold on their gryphon stands. His horse stood, still saddled, beside him. That fact served him rough warning: the pact Sethvir kept with the land’s fey spirits, which normally assisted his arrivals, had fallen into neglect. He could not have encountered a more certain sign that Althain’s Warden remained unwell. As the lane flux subsided to background quiescence, Asandir scanned the dungeon’s chill silence. No wardings had faltered. Yet, in line with his bleak foreboding, no colleague stepped forth to greet him.

The play of raw lane force under his feet spoke of winter. He had been gone for weeks. He could but hope the supplies in the stable had not been despoiled by mice. Beyond exhausted, his rangy, tall frame was now chiseled lean from channeling the extreme, dire forces required to mend a torn grimward. He stroked the black shoulder of his equally tired horse, then gathered the reins between cinder-burned fingers. Underlit by the phosphor pallor of the runes that channeled the thrust of the lane tides, he slapped out a persistent, smoldering spark still raising smoke from his sleeve cuff. Then he addressed an eloquent apology in Paravian to his long-suffering mount, whose tail and mane had been singed to the same sorry state as his rider’s tattered clothing.

Shod hooves clanged on the agate floor. The stallion trailed the Sorcerer’s step off the inlaid patterns which scribed the grand rings of the focus circle. By the sidewall, Asandir unbuckled girth strap and bridle. He bundled his holed cloak and mopped the foam from the animal’s face and lips, then rubbed down the sweat-drenched chest and flank, and the whorled hair left matted down from the saddle. The minor burns on fetlocks and cannon bones, he soothed with the healing of his spelled touch. When he straightened and strode into the portal which fronted the stairwell, the stallion pricked black ears and followed.

At the base of the stair, Asandir asked a permission. He spoke the true Name for his horse. The stallion whickered as though in reply, and stone responded, yielding up its fast secret.

An arched doorway melted into what had apparently been a seamless marble wall.

Beyond lay Althain Tower’s snug stable, and an underground passage mazed with spelled gates that led to the fells outside. Aware he was home, the stallion shouldered eagerly over the threshold. The portal was guarded. Paravians had laid wards through the grain of the stonework. Life and movement awoke the soft sheeting flare of those latent powers. A misty light winnowed the animal’s form as though testing each hair one by one. Despite mild appearance, the spell was not harmless.

Had the horse still worn saddle or headstall, rope and leather would have instantly incinerated. An ill-set nail in any one shoe would have raised a snapped spark of warning.

Aware his mount’s care had been measured to test his right to admittance, Asandir gave his true Name, then avowed, ‘The black stallion, Isfarenn, stands surety for my given word.’ As many times as this ward had challenged him, the Sorcerer still sucked a bracing breath. Then, in the respectful humility these protections demanded, he followed his horse’s footsteps.

The ward forces combed through him and screened his integrity until he felt scoured from within. Although he experienced no painful discomfort, each nerve in his body was touched. Mind and heart were stripped bare. Paravian wards pierced through all deception, the merciless clarity imbued in their workings a violation of privacy to any creature born human. Asandir harbored no illusion. Had his horse suffered thoughtless harm at his hand, he would stand in peril of his very life.

Yet the proper permissions had been asked and given. Where hardship had taxed man and beast, the stallion Isfarenn had shared his great strength in free-spirited partnership. Asandir received his due grant of entry, untouched except for the festering blisters branded on him through his trials in the grimward.

The horse had already entered the near box stall, which had no door and no chain. Asandir fetched bristle brushes and set about grooming the animal’s rank coat. When the black stud was dry, and sleek as new satin, he shook out fresh straw bedding, doled a generous grain ration, then filled the manger with clover hay.

The horse shook its crest and sighed deep with contentment.

‘Rest as you can,’ the Sorcerer agreed as he drew fresh water from the cistern. ‘The gate to the outdoors is left open for your use. Roll on the downs as you please, but don’t wander. I much doubt we’ll be blessed with the option of staying in comfort at Althain for long.’

The stallion returned a companionable nose butt, then sloshed his filled pail. Asandir rubbed the intelligent, wide forehead. ‘Once again, brother, I thank you.’

On departure, the stallion’s true Name and contentment allowed the Sorcerer’s safe return to the stairwell. While the arch faded away at his back, he swayed. Aching weariness dragged at his balance. Any bare-handed contact with grimwards wrought havoc. The insidious distortions of drake-dreams and the rip currents of primal chaos left a toll of leaching damage. The Sorcerer sensed the entropic tears laced through the ribbon-thin layers of his aura: the gadfly swarm of imbalanced energy required rest and patience to repair.

He steeled his worn spirit. Faced by the sure prospect of a swift return to the field, Asandir gathered Isfarenn’s grimed tack. The saddlebags collected from the focus-chamber floor burdened his shoulder like lead. Since his life, and the world’s fate, might come to hinge on his readied state of preparedness, the gear must be overhauled straightaway.

Fatigue made the stair interminably steep. Asandir paused between risers. He closed stinging eyes and, in iron fortitude, pressed his overfaced body to move on. Deadly languor enveloped him. He acknowledged the mental spur of alarm, and knew he would have to keep moving. The convoluted works of Eckracken’s haunt had taxed him beyond prudent limits.

‘For grace, and Ath’s mercy,’ he murmured.

A miracle answered. The burden of cinder-scorched harness was lifted out of his arms.

‘In truth, Ath’s mercy walks beside you, everlasting,’ a voice greeted in gentle encouragement.

Asandir opened the leaden weight of his eyelids. Washed in a dazzle of soft, golden light, he made out the white-robed presence of two adepts of Ath’s Brotherhood, one male, who took charge of the horse gear, and the other, a tiny, walnut-skinned woman, who extended a strong grip to brace him.

‘Welcome home.’ Her smile held the fire of a Sanpashir sunrise, replete with the promise of renewal.

Asandir took her hand in unabashed need. Gratitude filled his heart. Speechless, he bowed his silver head, and allowed her to tow his rangy frame up the long spiral staircase.

A wooden tub of heated water awaited in the chamber Sethvir kept to accommodate guests. Asandir had no chance to express thanks or show relief for that tender forethought. Met by lit candles and the fragrance of incense, he found himself accosted at the threshold by two more white-robed adepts. While the one with his trail gear hastened purposefully off, the new pair moved in without fuss to remove his scarred leathers and soiled clothing.

‘Allow us,’ urged the desertbred woman, whose tenacious grip resisted his urge to tug free. ‘We were told you would thread Eckracken’s maze, and leave the grimward by direct passage.’

In fact, expediency had demanded the Fellowship’s field Sorcerer to do just that, his risky transfer accomplished by harnessing the dire vortex within the king drake’s leviathan skull. Asandir found he lacked the strength to muster the courtesy to press the adepts for his privacy. ‘Sethvir knows everybody’s habits too well,’ he agreed, stoic as the woman’s neat touch eased off his singed shirt.

He was less able to mask his sharp flinch as the cloth scraped the blisters raised by rained cinders across his shoulders and arms. ‘My dear, you know that hot water’s going to sting like the eight blazes of Sithaer.’

The adept clicked her tongue and stepped back, leaving her male fellows to unlace the Sorcerer’s smallclothes. ‘The water is necessary to soothe your torn aura. We can reweave the ripped pattern fastest through that element. Unless you would rather be patient and rest?’ Her laughter was liquid and silver, dancing antidote to Asandir’s ripe flush. ‘I’d thought not. If you wish to recover and ride out by dawn, you’ll just have to sting, with our help.’

‘How many of your Brotherhood have transferred to Althain?’ Asandir asked, the concern in his tone gruffly testy.

‘Six.’ The female adept fetched cloth and soap, while her male henchmen helped his reeling step over the tub’s rim and through the unpleasant shock of immersion. ‘Bide and let go. Your colleague Sethvir is not left unattended. You shall receive a full summary of events just as soon as you regain your vitality.’

A scant hour later, refreshed and restored, Asandir dressed in a clean shirt and dark tunic, and his least-mended set of spare riding leathers. Neatly shaven, his hair a silver cascade on broad shoulders, he mounted Althain Tower’s worn stair to pay a visit to the king’s chamber. He went at the urgent behest of the adepts, before he looked in on Sethvir. Only the white-robed lady accompanied him. By time-honored custom, if the querent was male, a woman stood spokesman to reflect the balance inherent in Ath’s creation.

‘Sethvir is too taxed to share what he sees through direct link with his earth-sense,’ she explained, her peppery accent spiking echoes throughout the drafty shaft of the stairwell. She wore her hood raised, the entwined ciphers of silver and gold casting soft radiance about her. ‘Although in grace, our Brotherhood cannot use power to alter the way of the world, we can reflect the shape of events with the clarity of Ath’s truth.’ Arrived on the landing, she lifted the wrought-iron door latch. ‘Go in. Behold the picked scenes Sethvir left in trust for you. As I can, I will answer your questions.’

Asandir reached out, gathered her sun-browned fingers into a hand as capable and callused as a laborer’s. ‘Dear lady, you’ve all done enough. I am grateful.’ His understated touch as he ushered her aside bespoke an ironclad dignity. He was himself, his core power leashed to a presence as enduring as seamed granite. Wholly autonomous, he pushed back the oak door and entered the chamber himself.

The adept bent her head in frank homage as he passed, then trailed him inside and lit the wax tapers in the claw-footed candelabra.

The glow enriched the gold grain of the curly maple paneling.

A Cildorn carpet mellowed the plank floor, its vivid dyes muted before the jeweled silk of the heraldic king’s banners. Despite vibrant colors, the chamber felt cold. No fire burned in the hearth. The scrolled, ebon pilasters and marble-topped mantel gleamed untrammeled by dust, and the high, lancet windows wore the seal of deep night. Stabbed through the perfume of citrus-oil polish, the still air gave off the uncanny, frost tang of magic.

Now wary, Asandir approached the massive ebony table, with its pedestals of standing, paired lions. His step skirted the empty oak chairs with their chased-ivory finials. Braced to neutrality, he leaned on spread hands and surveyed the circular pane of smoked glass Ath’s adepts had placed on the tabletop. A sparrow perched on a chairback took wing and eerily vanished. A field mouse sat upright on tucked hind legs, whiskers pricked and attentive, while overhead its archenemy, the horned owl, blinked in disinterest from a settled roost in the rafters. Asandir showed no surprise. Such visitations occurred wherever Ath’s adepts engaged a portal to tap the prime life chord.

‘The glass holds those events Althain’s Warden deemed important,’ the lady ventured, her near presence casting a more refined light than common candleflame warranted. She perched on the seat nearest the black-and-silver leopard standard of Rathain, while Asandir, standing, absorbed the grim scenes gathered within the spelled glass.

He saw Kharadmon, far afield in the void between stars, spinning spell after spell of deflection to divert an influx of wraiths bound from Marak. ‘Mercy on us,’ he murmured in blanched shock. ‘The worst has begun. What other ill news will you show me?’

Patient, the adept waited until Asandir had steeled his nerve to move on.

Next, the glass gave him sight of Luhaine’s discorporate presence, guarding the damaged wards which secured Desh-thiere’s prison at Rockfell. He awaited two others: Dakar and Fionn Areth turned their mounts loose and labored on foot through the arduous southwest passage across the white-crowned range of the Skyshiels.

He saw Arithon s’Ffalenn, asleep, huddled in a thicket; then armed companies from five cities converging on Daon Ramon, their purpose to bring war to the ancient ruin of Ithamon.

Farther south, the Master Spellbinder Verrain stood vigil at Mirthlvain Swamp. Methspawn stirred and fought beneath winter ice, feeding one on another in bloodthirsty eagerness for the release to come with the spring thaws. Traithe had left Vastmark with intent to assist him, but a flood on River Ippash would delay him.

Tension blanched Asandir’s knuckles to scarred ivory against the jet grain of old ebony. ‘We have no hand free to send,’ he despaired, while in the glass, the events tied to Methisle streamed into the next change of scene. In northern Tysan, where Westwood’s fringes thinned into a patchwork of hamlets, marauding Khadrim gorged upon the charred corpses of a trapper and his close family. ‘Does this sequence get any worse?’

The adept held her counsel, aggrieved in compassion, while another view bloomed and burned across the dark face of the glass…

In the High Priest’s chamber at Avenor, under furtive cover of night, the velvet curtains were drawn to hide the gleam of late-burning candles. There, a clandestine meeting commenced between Cerebeld and Lord Koshlin, Guild Master of Erdane, now appointed as his mayor’s delegate to serve the city’s close interests.

‘I’ve maintained the appearance of keeping my Lord Mayor’s instructions, and done your will without compromise,’ the sly man complained. ‘At every turn, I’ve thwarted the princess’s inquiries into the death of her predecessor. Her Grace has been diverted from finding the truth so many times, she’s justly begun to suspect my obstruction. Her trust is withdrawn. You must realize that leaves me exposed. At all costs, I can’t risk the loss of respect should the mayor, her father, hear of her reservations.’

‘I see that cost might prove a touch high,’ Cerebeld agreed, his purposeful attitude undaunted. ‘Therefore, we shall at one stroke change the princess’s distrust to subservience.’ He arose, crossed his chamber, and opened a locked chest. Gold rings glinted as he withdrew a sealed parchment. ‘You shall give the lady the proof that she seeks: incontrovertible evidence that her predecessor’s death was no suicide.’

Koshlin’s saturnine features went slack. ‘Proof?’

Cerebeld’s suave manner made his scrubbed skin seem a mask of polished enamel. ‘Proof, in the form of the sealed confession of the marksman whose shot sliced the rope. Lady Talith did not jump, but attempted escape on the hour she plunged to her death.’

‘Volatile paper,’ Lord Koshlin said. ‘You dare much, to risk having her murder made public.’

‘On the contrary.’ Cerebeld riffled the document, nonplussed. ‘The incumbent princess is distressed over her young son’s assignment to ride with the field patrol. Desperation and motherhood make her mood unpredictable. Her Grace might try something regrettable. I want Ellaine cowed. She’ll see how the last princess became a dead pawn, but not know the faction responsible. Fear will gag her questions. And where can this paper be taken, or shown, outside of her private chambers? She can’t leave Avenor. Her guards and her handmaids are mine, every one. Her husband’s kept his private distance since the heir’s birth. The lady has no champion to pursue her sad cause. If you stay discreet, she’ll have little choice but to retire in terrified silence.’

‘Merciful Ath!’ Asandir mused aloud. His seamed face turned grim as a scarp of chipped granite, while far off, in the High Priest’s closed chamber, the sealed parchment quietly changed hands.

Then the glass shifted scenes to reveal the tents of an Alliance patrol, horses and men encamped on the icy banks of River Melor.

‘Sethvir has divined a threat to Prince Kevor, of course,’ the Sorcerer said as his sharp glance encompassed the gold star banner flying amid the camp’s standards. The blue field displayed the heraldic crown, proclaiming the presence of the blood royal among the routine, armed cavalcade.

‘That boy’s trueborn to his s’Ilessid ancestry.’ Asandir saw clear warning, that the endowment of that line’s gifted justice might lead the boy to a disastrous confrontation with the pack of Khadrim seeding havoc and terror in Westwood.

‘Time I went to Sethvir,’ the Sorcerer announced. As the ominous record left in the glass subsided back into blankness, the silver-gray eyes raised to meet Ath’s adept were recast to the glint of forged steel. ‘If aught’s to be done, the choice must be aired well before the lane tide rises at daybreak.’

The oak door sighed open and revealed velvet darkness. Silence greeted Asandir on the threshold of Sethvir’s private quarters. The deep quiet bestowed no feeling of calm, but instead enfolded him like suffocation. The embrace of the air on his skin was too warm. Though the medicinal smell of sweet herbs was not cloying, every sense jangled warning he intruded upon something more than a sickroom.

‘He’s grown worse?’ the field Sorcerer inquired of the adept who kept ceaseless vigil by the entry.

The gentle, aged woman turned back her hood. Her lined face a mapwork of patience, she said, ‘The Warden feels no pain, nor is he unconscious. Though he might seem asleep, his state of suspension is dreamless. You may need to use Name to recall him.’

Asandir swallowed, for a moment not trusting the strength of his voice. ‘Do candles disturb him?’

‘Unshielded ones, yes.’ Wise in her way, the adept said no more, but let Asandir enter the chamber by mage-sight. Ever so gently, she closed the oak panel to grant him full measure of privacy.

Left in darkness, his guidance the smoke-haze of spirit light, Asandir made his unerring way to the bedside. Sethvir rested amid the combed billows of his beard, the gnarled, clean hands abandoned on the coverlet too far removed from splashed inkpots and mischievous life. Ath’s adepts had surpassed expectations in their meticulous care for him. The torn fissures in Sethvir’s aura were reknit, the spindled gold halo without any shadow of seam. If the glow was too scant, its radiance dwindled, the cause would be Sethvir’s willed choice. Minute to minute, he still poured out his vital forces for causes of perilous necessity.

Asandir paused. Upset by the pressures that demanded intrusion, he still groped for right words when a thready whisper arose from amid the piled pillows.

‘Asandir? Is that you?’

The Sorcerer dropped to one knee. Through mangling emotion, he managed a reply. ‘I am here. Say which grimward needs attending.’

The answer came back like a stab to the heart. ‘There are five, but of those, Alqwerik’s by Athir’s most pressing.’

‘I’ll leave on the dawn lane tide,’ Asandir promised, then drew a quick breath. ‘No, please. Don’t speak. The adepts kept their promise. I saw the unpleasant news left for me in the glass.’ He need not belabor the obvious conflict, that of the multiple crises revealed, none could take precedence over the threat of even one distressed grimward. If the worst happened, and the flawed wards at Rockfell escaped Luhaine’s vigilant guardianship, or if the wraiths questing from Marak slipped past Kharadmon’s mazed defenses, there would be no way left on Ath’s earth to recall him. No contact from Althain could cross through a drake-dream, even one spun by the ghost of a creature whose bones lay three Ages dead.

Hedged by the perils that closed on all sides, Asandir said in dire humor, ‘If I meet disaster upon my return, at least I’ll stand warned beforetime. You should rest.’

The stirred movement fanning through loose wisps of beard evinced Sethvir’s harrowed sigh. ‘No rest. Did you see? Davien’s shade has left the refuge he built in the caverns beneath Kewar Tunnel.’

‘Why should that surprise me? All else in creation seems ripe to breed chaos.’ Just as troubled by thought of Davien’s obscure motives, Asandir changed the subject. ‘I saw that you fear for Prince Kevor’s safety.’

‘Worse,’ Sethvir breathed in soft sorrow.

‘Cerebeld wants him dead, that was glaringly plain.’ Asandir leaned in close, elbow braced on the mattress. The other hand flexed to a fist on his knee, with his frown graven deep as worn leather. ‘Beset as we are, who could stand by to help?’

‘Ath’s hostel at Northstrait lies along the first lane,’ Sethvir pointed out, too enervated to be less abstruse.

Asandir weighed the statement, well aware that the Warden’s checkered thoughts masked disarmingly shrewd ingenuity. ‘Do you imply what I think?’ Sharply fast to grasp strategy, the field Sorcerer clarified, ‘You believe we could give Lysaer’s heir a spelled talisman?’

Sethvir’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded. To mage-sight, in darkness, their color shone an eerie, serene aqua that reflected a sense of vast distance. Asandir, watching, felt a bolt of black fear strike straight through him. Never before this had he seen breathing life so closely mirror the infinite. ‘Tell me in words. You need grounding. I can hope speech will help.’

‘The rock, chastising air?’ The ghost of a smile turned Sethvir’s lips as he struggled to meet the demand. ‘I’d hoped the same plan might be used to spare Arithon, but the adepts refused me the use of a talisman as a bridge. They perceive very well that his Grace of Rathain’s become too fated a cipher.’

‘No hostels remain active in Daon Ramon, anyway. Who else could have handled the problem?’ Asandir hooked a footstool, dragged it close to the cot, and assumed the unlikely perch. His lean length of limb and innate balance lent him the hunch of a wing-folded heron. ‘If Prince Arithon was refused, what grounds would grant an appeal for a boy not brought up to honor the old ways? Why should Ath’s Brotherhood offer their sanctuary to safeguard Kevor s’Ilessid?’

‘I can’t promise they would.’ Sethvir’s brow furrowed. ‘But suppose we created a talisman stone, imprinted with spells based in parallel with the powers that rule the scrying glass in the king’s chamber. Say it was delivered by a messenger who would not be heard, unless the young prince showed the honesty of his blood heritage.’

‘You mean, test him?’ Asandir leaned forward, braced on crossed forearms. The idea had merit. Heirship was sanctioned along similar guidelines. ‘If Kevor has the bare-bones humility to hear truth, and honors his heart ahead of the mores of his upbringing, I catch your drift.’

Sethvir’s eyes closed, his flesh like worn parchment beaten by storm to its craggy template of bone. ‘We could at least be sure the adepts at the hostel were made aware of his fate. Their compassion would mark his innocence, even if for a moment.’

‘But a moment might suffice.’ Lifted beyond pity by a glimmer of hope, Asandir traced the complex thread of logic himself. In extremity and need, the young prince might raise enough emotion and desire to engage the innate talent of his ancestry.

Given the birthright of s’Ahelas descent, in theory, Kevor could tap that stream of raw power himself.

‘Assuming that boy’s gift is strong enough.’ In desperation, or extreme pain, he might unwittingly waken his own talent and tear through the veil into mystery. If so, conscious forces pooled within the sanctuary might answer and draw him to safety. A desperate long shot. Asandir shook his head. ‘Even if all those unlikely conditions were met, you know, in the hands of Ath’s Brotherhood, we must lose him.’

Althain’s Warden dredged up his reply, whisper faint. ‘We’ve already lost him, entangled as he is in town politics and the thorns of Avenor’s false doctrine. At best, through a talisman, Lysaer’s son might be given a slim chance to claim his redemption. Would you lay the conjury into the stone as a boon, done for me?’

‘You’ve already culled a volunteer messenger? Since I won’t have to ride the west trade road in winter, I’ll have the work done before daybreak.’ Asandir gathered the limp hands which rested in disarray on the blanket, then gave back his firm reassurance. ‘One of the river pebbles you’ve cached in the library will surely be willing to give us the necessary service.’

He arose on the promise he would bid farewell ahead of his departure at dawn.

Yet before he could go, the outer door cracked. A female adept he had not seen earlier asked her permission to enter. ‘A message has come from our hostel in the Skyshiels.’

Asandir straightened, half-braced. ‘More bad news from the east?’

The adept shook her head. ‘Rest easy, no. The Warden’s desire was met. One of our Brotherhood went to Elaira. Her spell quartz has been sent to her peeress, uncleared.’ Which meant the order was not yet the wiser for the fact the imprinted longevity bindings on the enchantress’s life had been supplanted by Fellowship crafting.

Asandir stood, eyes shut through a moment of welling gratitude. Then he regarded his prostrate colleague and sensed the frail but mischievous encouragement sent by thought across the blanketing darkness. Sparked into hope too fierce to be guarded, he dared to frame the bold question. ‘You had an adept make contact with Elaira?’

‘Better still,’ the adept ventured, unoffended by his insolence.

‘By morning, the enchantress intends to set off for our hostel in the mountains by Eastwall.’

‘But that’s brilliant!’ His turbulent gaze still fixed on Sethvir, Asandir pondered the startling range of changed impact. Jubilation broke through his most solemn restraint. ‘You’re a fiendish, hard taskmaster. Why else would you hold the cheerful gossip for last?’

A hitched sigh of cloth, as Sethvir stirred under his mantle of comforters. ‘You know why.’ Any one of the quandaries left mapped in glass could cancel out hope at a stroke. ‘The adepts will explain what has passed with Elaira. Did you want our pacts renewed with the earth sprites who tend the lower dungeon gate spells? Then leave me in peace. Or your black stud won’t stand saddled and waiting by the circle on the hour you take leave for Athir.’

Winter 5670