Shadowfane

  Moonless tossed. Balanced on his feet with catlike ease, Corley spared her the need to speak first. 'What brings you out? Not the shaggy mug of my helmsman, surely.'

  His humour raised no smile. 'I have tidings from the Vaere,' said Taen. 'We are pursued out of Hallowild. I was told to warn you. Beware of the demon-possessed.'

  Corley frowned. He did not move, even when a shower of windblown spray plastered his shirt to his back. Suddenly he gestured with decision. 'Come below. We'll talk.'

  Given any choice, Taen would have declined. But strained emotions did not blight her common sense; she knew the captain's request concerned the men left stationed at Morbrith. For their sake, she permitted Corley to hustle her through the hatch and into the dry comfort of his stern cabin.

  A lantern burned over the starboard sea chest. In wildly flickering light, Taen observed that the sheets were turned down on Corley's berth. Evidently the steward cherished hopes that his captain would snatch time to undress and sleep. But as always, such solicitude proved futile. Corley flung off his drenched tunic and tossed it carelessly across the linen. Then he gestured for Taen to sit on the locker nearest the coal stove.

  The Dreamweaver did not remove his dripping cloak. Though the spare orderliness of the captain's quarters had always before reassured her, she had lost any inclination to abandon her reserve. 'The Vaere gave me no particulars. I know only what I told you on deck.'

  Voices in the cabin drew the steward, who ducked his head in the door. Corley dispatched the servant to the galley to fetch mulled wine, then seated himself before the streaked panes of the stern window. He scrubbed the salt from his brow with his knuckles and again looked at the Dreamweaver. 'I need your help to contact my captains at Hallowild. They may be better informed of the danger we face. If not, they deserve warning. Our peril might become theirs as well.'

  Taen bent her head, expression hidden by a fallen veil of hair. She sat so still that Corley thought for a moment she had refused his request.

  He tried gently to reason with her. 'If you can't act for my men, then do so for the safety of Morbrith's folk.'

  But Taen did not hear. Already she had blanked her physical senses and slipped deep into trance. She extended her focus across leagues of wind-torn ocean to the far shores of Hallowild. To her dream-sense, the town of Corlin appeared as clustered sparks of light, each person a jewel shining against velvet dark. Other glimmers lay scattered across the expanse beyond: post stations, farmsteaders, and foresters plying livelihoods in solitude. Taen refined her probe, centring upon the estuary of the Redwater where five brigantines rode at anchor, commanded by the captain of Cliffhaven's vessel Ballad.

  Although the river was jammed with the customary traders, no spark matched the abrasive presence of Ballad's master. Taen hesitated, perplexed. On the chance the man was off board, perhaps enjoying a drink or a wench in one of Corlin's three taverns, she swept the harbour again, seeking the Ballad's boatswain. That search failed also. Alarmed now, Taen turned north to Morbrith where the Kielmark's other companies remained to defend the keep.

  The backland hills lay studded with familiar compass-ring formations that marked a clansmen's camp; northwest held only darkness. Puzzled, Taen hesitated. Beyond the sparkling cross that was Gaire's Main, the living folk of Morbrith should have glimmered like a constellation of stars. No light remained. Shadow seemed to have fallen over keep and farmstead and wildlands. Touched by fear, the Dreamweaver intensified her search. Through the lengthening days of spring she had guarded twice ten thousand people from the predations of the Dark-dreamer; surely Shadowfane could not have obliterated so many in so short a span of time!

  Yet Morbrith domain stayed dark, as if a veil of mourning had been drawn across the land. Not the High Earl in his hall, nor the surly temper of Corley's first-in-command, nor a single man of Cliffhaven's defence force remained. Reckless with disbelief, the Dreamweaver delved deeper. She strained the limits of her strength seeking life, to no avail. Nothing; blackness absorbed her effort. Her senses sank into endless, numbing cold. Shock and grief drove her to sound that well of oblivion; but as Taen extended her senses, evil moved at its heart. She jerked back in alarm. Aware of her, the presence that occupied Morbrith keep reached out in challenge. Though its essence was recognizably part of Maelgrim Dark-dreamer, another more alien resonance suffused the pattern of his being. This overtone was other, and terrifying in a manner no word could describe. The Dreamweaver dared not delve deeper over distance. If the people of an entire domain could fall to the Dark-dreamer's strange and amplified influence, hope for Keithland now relied upon Moonless and Ivainson Jaric.

  Taen broke contact, restored to the toss of stormy seas and the clink of mugs as the steward served spiced wine in the stern cabin. She clenched bloodless fingers in the wool that cloaked her shoulders. Feeling helpless and desperate and alone, she sought means to voice a horror that defied credibility. Shadowfane had struck. Morbrith was no more; every competent, rough-mannered seaman who had remained to defend the High Earl was now lost to the living. Taen tried to speak, but anguish and disbelief stifled the breath in her lungs.

  'Taen?' Warned of something brutally wrong, Corley dismissed the steward, and said, 'Girl, you look ill. What's happened?'

  The Dreamweaver could do nothing at all except break the news. 'Morbrith has fallen to Kor's Accursed. Not a man, woman, or child escaped.' She shivered, forced herself to qualify though her voice broke. 'I don't know how! But your men are gone, even Shearfish's master and crew. I found no trace of the companies you stationed to aid the High Earl's defence.'

  An interval loud with waves and creaking timber answered her terrible words. The only movement in the cabin was the rising curl of steam from the one mug the steward had managed to pour. Jolted by the captain's profound stillness, Taen at last looked up. The blanket bunched in her trembling fingers. Where she had braced herself in expectation of curses and violence, Corley had done very little more than surge to his feet.

  His face was open as few ever saw it, a naked expression of horror and pain and disbelief. As Taen watched, the creases around his eyes clenched. The grief that rocked him was deep, and private, and woundingly intense. Incongruity struck her like a slap. That a cold-handed killer could own such depth of compassion became impossible to countenance.

  Unable to reconcile the emotion with the man, Taen gasped and quivered and at last gave way to tears. 'Corley, they're gone, all gone. Even Ballad's awful cook, who put all that pepper in the beans.'

  The captain's stunned moment of suspension broke. He reached her in a stride, caught her heaving shoulders in his hands, and stroked her hair. 'Easy. Easy.'

  His control seemed restored, his shock and his loss instantly masked to master the needs of the moment; but no one with a Dreamweaver's sensitivities could ignore the truth: the man behind the facade still wept inwardly for the death of the crews under his command, as well as the mother left behind years past at Morbrith. Taen felt a hard something give inside. The distrust that had festered since the incident with the priests found release in racking sobs. The Dreamweaver buried her distress in dry linen that smelled of soap and the herbs the steward used to sweeten the sea chests. Yet horror did not abate. Deison Corley might be forgiven his cruelties; the firm play of muscles beneath her cheek might steady her, but no human comfort could ease her sorrow. Not even for the sake of Ivainson Jaric could Taen forgive herself for abandoning Morbrith to the mercy of the Dark-dreamer.

  Corley shook her gently. 'Ease up, little witch. You've pitched yourself alone against an enemy too great for all of us. Don't feel craven for stepping back.' His tone assumed a hint of iron. 'Once Jaric gains his mastery, we'll have the means to fight.'

  Yet the captain's confidence was forced. Morbrith had fallen, quickly, inexplicably, and finally, claiming the only relation who recognized him and five companies of the Kielmark's best men. Grimly Corley wondered when the pursuit promised by Tamlin's warning would overtake his singl
e ship; even if he contrived to escape the fate that had befallen the High Earl, how long before Ivainson Jaric broke under agonies beyond the means of any human mind to endure?

  That question would not find answer in darkness on the open sea. As soon as Taen had calmed somewhat, Corley settled her by the stove and belatedly offered mulled wine. White-faced, fighting to control her sorrow, she badly needed the restorative. Although she accepted the cup, she did not drink.

  Instead she clenched her fingers as if her hands were cold. 'The Kielmark will have to be told.'

  Corley expelled an inaudible sigh of relief. He had always known the girl had pluck. For the first time he realized how dependably he could count on her good sense. 'You might want to finish your wine first.'

  Taen shook her head. 'No.' The faintest amusement brightened her tone. 'Unless the Kielmark has miraculously learned temperance, I rather think I'll need the drink afterwards.'

  She hooked her mug in a bracket to warm upon the stove, then bowed her head in dream-trance once more. Her powers answered with reluctance. Weary in a manner that had little to do with the lateness of the hour, she gathered her awareness in hand. The scent of sweet wine and spices and the salt-smell of Corley's sodden woollens faded slowly from perception as she cast her call outward, over leagues of storm-tossed ocean toward the Kielmark's stronghold on Cliffhaven.

  Corley poured no wine for himself, but paced the cabin while he waited for her to rouse. He compensated without effort against the roll of the deck as Moonless thrashed through the swells. Gusts blew savage blasts of rain against the stern windows. Streaks of wet ran down the glass, gilt against the darkness beyond. Corley gazed into the storm with unseeing eyes and noticed very little until the steward appeared at the companionway with a quiet inquiry after Taen. The captain paused then, abruptly aware that the Dreamweaver had lingered too long in trance.

  His concern transformed to alarm. The girl lay motionless by the stove, black hair drying in tangles over her shoulders. Her borrowed cloak had slipped aside, the one wrist visible beyond the edge too still to seem alive. Between one stride and the next, Corley knelt at the Dreamweaver's side.

  Taen stirred almost immediately. Conscious of the captain's presence even before she had reoriented to the stern cabin aboard Moonless, she opened eyes gone bleak with dismay. 'I couldn't get through.'

  Corley reined back an overpowering urge to question; his impatience could only add to the girl's alarm. Against all instinct he waited, and in her own time Taen qualified. She touched his mind directly with her dream-sense, and Corley shaired firsthand the dense, almost suffocating darkness blocking her attempt to reach the Kielmark.

  He spoke the instant her touch released his mind. 'Do you think the event is related?'

  Taen knew he referred to the disappearance of his men and the strange darkness over Morbrith. 'We dare not assume otherwise.' Her hands twisted the cloak's damp fabric over and over, while Corley assessed the implications of leaving the Kielmark uninformed.

  But Taen already thought ahead of him on that count. 'Cliffhaven must be told. With Tamlin of the Vaere unavailable for advice, no choice remains but to work through the wizards of Mhored Kara.'

  The girl's resilience astonished. Still on his knees, Corley started back, his hand out of habit clenched on the hilt of his most convenient knife. 'You risk much,' he said incredulously. 'There's no love lost between the college of sorcery and the Kielmark.'

  'Meaning they fight like weasels.' Taen was not intimidated when Corley drew his blade and tested the edge with his finger.

  'One of the conjurers Anskiere destroyed on Imrill Kand was the Lord of Mhored Kara's son.' The captain flipped the blade neatly and made a cutting motion in the air. 'Why do you think the Kielmark's so touchy on the subject of sorcery? Aside from the upset arranged by the witch Tathagres, we've been expecting arcane retaliation in some form for the better part of a year.'

  'Yet your master cannot guard Mainstrait against a threat he knows nothing about.' Taen reached out and with a touch stilled Corley's knife hand in the air. 'Some problems can't be solved with steel. You'll have to trust my judgement.'

  The captain disengaged and returned the bleakest of smiles. 'My boatswain says you're a crafty hand at cards. That's a fair blessing, girl. Because against the wizards of Mhored Kara, you'll need every trick you have, and a dozen others only the devil could arrange.' The knife flashed once as Corley turned the blade and rammed it into the sheath at his wrist. Worry hidden behind brusqueness, he added, 'Good luck, little witch. If you get through, and if the Kielmark neglects to thank you properly for the service, I'll personally thrash him at quarterstaffs the next time we dock at Cliffhaven.'

  Taen grinned. 'You'll try.' And she ducked as Corley grabbed for her. 'Don't expect me to watch you get bruised.'

  'There's faith.' The captain grimaced sourly and rose, half-thrown to his feet as Moonless yawed over a swell. The wind had freshened. The scream of the gusts through the rigging penetrated even the cabins below decks. By now the watch would be changing. Anxious to return to his command, Corley yelled for the steward to bring his spare cloak. Then, too impatient to wait, he stamped through the companionway into the storm. Let the servant pursue him to the quarterdeck. The Kielmark's first captain had great courage, but not so much that he could stay and watch as a Dreamweaver too young for her burdens rallied her remaining resources and plunged once again into trance.

  VII

  Cycle of Fire

  The settlement of Mhored Kara lay on the coast east of Elrinfaer, to the south of the merchant city of Telshire. Taen had never travelled those shores, but during off-watch hours Corley's sailhands had told her tales. The wizards' towers perched on the very tip of a peninsula, black and notched, or black and pointed like rows of soldiers' spears. The structures had few windows. On dark nights strange lights burned from slits cut in the seaward walls, sometimes green, other times red. The phenomenon was not without precedent, for Vaerish sorceries commonly generated illumination; but as described by the sailors, the spells of Mhored Kara were scintillant and hurtful to the eye.

  Taen considered her task with trepidation. For centuries the conclave had provided conjurers for the courts of Felwaithe and Kisburn. Only once had the Dreamweaver encountered their work: As a child she had seen three such sorcerers set the enchanted fetters that blocked Anskiere's command of wave and weather. The strongest of the three, who once served as Grand Conjurer to Kisburn's King, had gone on to strip the Stormwarden of protection, by murdering the birds fashioned of weather wards for defence. Taen recalled the sorcerer's hands, streaked and dripping with blood as they stabbed and stabbed again with the knife. Even the memory made her feel ill.

  She had been untrained then, utterly ignorant of her Dreamweaver's potential. Newly wise to the ways of power, she lacked the understanding to determine how a Vaere-trained sorcerer in the fullness of his mastery could be subdued by lesser wizards from the south. Perhaps against three, Anskiere could not save himself; far more likely he had surrendered willingly for some obscure purpose of his own. Whatever the reason, that Kisburn's conjurers had constrained his powers was a real and chilling fact. Taen gathered herself in trance, coldly aware that she courted danger.

  Caution was necessary also because the location of Mhored Kara was unfamiliar to her; to find the wizards' towers she had only a compass direction plotted off Corley's charts, and imperfect images garnered from the recollections of sailors. She began quickly, lest her resolve become daunted by uncertainties.

  The lash of the seas and the work and creak of Moonless dimmed in the Dreamweaver's ears as she unreeled her awareness over Elrinfaer. She crossed acres wasted by Mharg-demons in the generation before she was born, league upon league of desolation where life had yet to recover. Her mind traversed a landscape of treeless rock, of earth ripped by wind into sand and dust devils. Deserted cottages caught drifts of soil in the stones of tumbled chimneys. The pastures that once nourished livestock gre
w no fodder, but baked and cracked like desert bottomlands deprived of any shade. Not even bones remained of the folk who had once tilled fields and pruned lush acres of orchards. The sky overhead was empty of clouds or birds; beneath the golden glare of sunrise, sorrow seemed instilled in the stripped bones of the hills.

  Taen pressed south and east, to the far side of the tors of Telshire. There bare earth gave way to stunted weeds, then grasses tasselled with seed. Spring was well along in the lower latitudes. Wild apple trees showed hard green knots of new fruit. Beyond rose the deep, dark pines of the Deshforest, all shadows and interlaced branches fragrant with the scent of resin. None dwelt here but wandering clans of hilltribes and the occasional isolated trapper. Farther still, the forest wilds fell behind. Taen traversed scrublands pale with reed marshes, and chains of brackish pools that smelled of kelp. As she neared the sea, the vegetation changed to saw grass and beach plum, which clothed the high dunes of the south peninsula. There at last she found the towers of Mhored Kara, dull black against dawn sky, and narrow as swords; slate roofs caught the light like silvered lead. None of the wheeling gulls that scavenged the shoreline circled near, or roosted there.

  Taen damped her powers to a spark and guarded her presence under ward. The wizards might not be sensitive to the resonance of Vaerish sorcery, but only a fool would presume so. With apprehension and no small degree of misgiving, she narrowed her focus upon the tallest and slenderest of the spires and searched its salt-scoured stone for an opening.

  She entered through a rune-carved arch nestling beneath the eaves. The interior beyond was dusty and dim. Her questing dream-sense encountered trestles scattered with books and the burnt-down stubs of candles. The strange paraphernalia of magic stood crammed between shelves of phials, philtres, and collections of stoppered jars with faded labels. The bones of tiny animals mouldered within, or birds preserved in brine. Unpleasantly reminded of Anskiere's slaughtered wards, Taen pressed on. Her awareness funnelled down a spiral stairway dark with mirrors that did not reflect their surroundings. She sensed these for a trap and did not probe within; dream-sense warned her of mazes that twisted and turned in endless convolutions designed to ensnare the mind. For the first time, fear made her hesitate. What sort of intruder inspired the Mhored Karan wizards to build such cruel traps?