The steward answered gently. 'Ending dissent could, at the cost of one life rather than many. The road was fastest, and any delay threatens Jaric. Had you forgotten?'
'No.' Taen pressed her stinging finger against her leathers and waited, sensing the steward would add more.
'Corley's mother was a Morbrith lady's handmaid. While he was a lad, a hilltribe's chief stole her away during summerfair. In bitterness the father ruined himself with drink. The High Earl saw the boy got leavings from his own board so he'd have enough to eat. The mother returned years later with a hillman's get, a girl-child who spoke clan dialect and never learned civilized words. Corley fought himself bloody, defending his sister from abuse. But one day he caught three boys at rape. The scuffle that resulted left the Morbrith heir badly cut. Rather than shame his benefactor at trial, Corley shipped out with a trader. He ended serving the Kielmark.'
Here the steward paused. He checked to be certain Taen still listened. 'Corley once said his High Lord was a hard man, but just. In arranging the Earl's freedom, I think our captain cleared what he saw as a debt.'
Taen stared at the ground. Despite her Dreamweaver's perception, she had never probed Corley's mind throughout her time on Moonless. What had shocked her most that morning was the chilly calculation that inspired the man to violence; unlike the Kielmark's, this captain's temperament did not skirt the edge of madness.
'I suppose I owe him an apology.' She looked up, but noticed the steward had left her. Probably he hoped she would think and forgive his captain on her own; the courtesy left her relieved. At least she would not be pressured to confront the matter at the extreme end of her resources.
Taen sighed. Too tired to move, she curled against the warm boards of the inn and slept. Afternoon passed; the shadows gradually lengthened and trees striped patches of shadow against the grey timbers of the wall. At the usual hour, the blind, senile woman who served as priestess of the well crawled from her nook in the loft. Though decades had passed since hillfolk celebrated rites at her spring, she still wore the knotted leather garments of the clans. Her shuffling step carried her past the bench where the Dreamweaver lay asleep. For a moment the woman's milky eyes turned aside. A prickle of warning stirred within her; she strained to interpret, but lost the thread of prophecy in the vagueness of advanced age. Muttering and shaking straw-tangled hair, the priestess moved on to the kitchen stoop, where the inn mistress's daughter waited with her daily mug of milk.
Taen slept until Corley's mate came to fetch her at sundown. She barely had time to eat supper before the men saddled horses in the stableyard. The trip to Corlin resumed with stops through the night to change mounts; Corley steered himself clear of the Dreamweaver's presence throughout.
The company reached the ferry over the Redwater by dawn. With the least possible delay, the captain left the horses in the care of a drover, then bribed the bargemaster on duty with gold. Stranded caravans and merchants hollered imprecations from the bank, while the men loaded gear, and a Dreamweaver who slept soundly in blankets; they completed the trip down the estuary afloat. Moonless put to sea before Taen awoke. By then the shores of Hallowild had disappeared astern. The brigantine drove with the wind on her quarter, toward Jaric and the Isle of the Vaere.
VI
Demon Council
Lanterns shuttered with scarlet glass cast baleful, bloody light over the rock hall of Shadowfane. Demons all the sizes and shapes of nightmare stirred restlessly in the gallery, while, dark against darker shadow, a newly spawned Karas shape-changer lay puddled like slime on the floor behind the mirror pool. Presiding from the dais above, Lord Scait sat on his throne of human trophies, spiny hands poised on stuffed knees. None in the chamber made a sound, though alliances within Shadowfane were uneasy; the sighted and the eyeless alike strained forward, attention fixed on the human who knelt at Scait's feet.
'Rise.' The Lord of Shadowfane blinked, scaled lids momentarily eclipsing evil yellow eyes. 'Speak the tidings you came to deliver.'
The one known as Maelgrim touched his forehead to the floor. 'Your will, Lord Mightiest.' Wire bracelets chimed at his wrists as he straightened. Extended periods spent in mind-link with the Thienz had left him painfully thin. Black hair fell uncut to his shoulders, and a tunic of dyed linen clothed his wiry frame, belted at the hips with a sash of woven gold.
A rustle crossed the assembly, scratchy as wind through dry leaves. Maelgrim raised his face toward the throne. His eyes shone ice-pale, accentuated by bony sockets. When he spoke, he mixed images with words no human would comprehend. 'She has gone, this Dreamweaver sent by the Vaere. The might of Shadowfane could have killed her easily. By your command. such was not done. Now she has sailed for the Isle of the Vaere with the ship Moonless and the red-haired captain of the Kielmark's.' The creature who had once been human paused, his expression twisted with frustration. 'Lord, by your command, two most troublesome enemies are granted liberty to escape the net I wove. Why should this be?'
This news roused consternation from the gathering. Murmurs arose, sullen in overtone, underlaid by whispers of complaint. Scait's favourites exchanged uneasy glances, while numerous cadres of rivals expectantly licked pointed teeth.
Their stirrings and rustlings caused Scait to clash his jaws, and the long hackles trembled at his neck. 'Silence!' He surveyed the room, his glare baleful red in the lanternlight. As the assembly subsided to stillness, he focused once again upon Maelgrim. 'Your insolence is inappropriate, spawn-of-a-mewling-human. More important matters lie at stake than the death of your sister-accursed. Listen well. Learn patience, for the Dreamweaver and her captain go free only to dance to a grander plan. Be content, Dark-dreamer. You shall have what you desire, and sooner than you presently think.'
The Lord of Shadowfane croaked with a demonic equivalent of laughter, then arose from his throne of human remains. He spoke loudly that all might hear. 'O my kindred, my brothers, the Kielmark's captain has divided his force. Half of them convey to Ivain's heir, Jaric, the Dreamweaver who might have unravelled my plan. The rest remain, abandoned to their fates in Morbrith domain. These ones and all they stay to defend now lie vulnerable to exploitation. Listen and know! Maelgrim's search has located human children with the talent we require. These will be taken alive and brought to Shadowfane. Once their enslavement to a Thienz-dominated Sathid is complete, their talents will be turned to the ruin of humanity. Then shall the descendants of Corinne Dane suffer revenge for our centuries of exile!'
Beneath the dais, Scait's circle of favourites nodded among themselves. A quiver rippled the jellylike surface of the Karas, and Thienz hummed softly in mind-meld. Here and there, dark as clotted ink between the feet of the larger demons, the furred forms of Gierjlings twitched in communal sleep. But the boldest of Scait's rivals were not satisfied.
The nearest leapt up with a guttural growl of displeasure. Swift as the lash of a whip, Scait interrupted before she could speak. 'Be still, or earn bloodshed, for I have not forgotten the Set-Nav unit from Corinne Dane accursed!'
The rival bristled her short hackles. She poised on the verge of challenge, but the colleagues at her side chose not to support her defiance. They wished to hear of Scait's plot, and alone she was no match for the Lord enthroned on the dais. Left without recourse, she subsided as hushed anticipation settled over the assembly.
As if no disturbance had occurred, Scait outlined the remainder of his intentions. By the time he finished, even the most bloodthirsty rivals were forced to reluctant admiration; the plan to storm Keithland and reclaim the lost Veriset-Nav computer was a masterwork. Corley had unwittingly played straight into the Dark-dreamer's hands; and even the Kielmark's formidable discipline became a tool for Shadowfane's machinations.
Jabber arose from the packed ranks of the assembly. Young Thienz clustered about their elders to share in subtlety and speculation. Gierjlings sensed the rising excitement and stirred from sleep, their opened, reasonless eyes glowing violet in the shadows. Now only the mos
t vicious of the rivals considered dissent. The plan for humanity's destruction seemed brilliantly conceived.
The brigantines left at Corlin might indeed be purloined. They could ply south to recover Set-Nav with no human to dispute their passage, for did not vessels under the Kielmark's banner fare at will within Keithland? No king, no councilman of the Alliance, and no priest of Kordane's Brotherhood interfered with captains who flew the red wolf banner. To risk the Pirate Lord's displeasure was to set a stranglehold upon commerce, and humans did not place their gold in jeopardy. This every demon understood.
But snags remained; neither did the Kielmark's officers brook interference. Their loyalty was tight as old roots, impossible to bend or loosen. Memories-of-ancestors confirmed such beyond question: demons had died screaming upon Cliffhaven. To meddle with the King-wolf-pirate was to risk much, or so the rivals determined. Some of them gnashed their teeth. One female, Scait-egg-sister, went further and dared raise an objection. 'Lord, your proposal is flawed-dangerous, a plan for the wise to spurn. Kielmark-accursed has a taste for mad-vengeance, and his chestnut-haired captain is like him.'
Scait disdained to raise his hackles against a sibling. With a lazy hiss, he gestured toward the newly hatched shape-changer that glistened like jelly at his feet. 'But we have a Karas to replace this captain,' he admonished. 'Through the crews left vulnerable at Morbrith, we shall gain access to Moonless, and through Moonless's master, shape-changed to a likeness of Deison-Corley-killer-of-brethren, the Kielmark shall meet his death. So shall my grand plan triumph.'
The Lord of Shadowfane waved a spurred forearm. In the corner farthest from the dais, a black knot of flesh stirred and unravelled into the separate forms of a mature circle of Gierjlings. Six sets of eyes glimmered like sparks in the gloom.
Scait turned eyes the disturbed gold of turbid oil upon the boy from Imrili Kand. 'Maelgrim Dark-dreamer, at last you may claim the greatest gift of your inheritance. Accept these Gierjlings and school yourself to merge with their minds. When you are able to embrace their powers fully, you are to wreak the bondage of Shadowfane upon the souls of Morbrith and with them the Kielmark's crewmen. That is my command.'
* * *
In the deepest hour of night four days after Moonless's departure, the Kielmark's four captains left stationed in Hallowild left their beds, though no circumstance had arisen to waken them. In separate but simultaneous movement, they dressed, and armed, and abruptly rousted their ships' companies to depart from Morbrith keep. The men obeyed with spiritless efficiency. By torchlight they saddled and mounted. A puzzled captain of the Earl's guard watched them ride out in cheerless silence. Once past the gates, they spurred south on the road toward Corlin.
The early hours before daylight saw their arrival at the crossroads settlement of Gaire's Main. There, while villagers shrank behind locked doors, the men at arms paused to water tired horses.
Disturbed by the chink of metal, the ancient priestess of the well stirred in the loft above the stableyard. The strange, prickling sensation that accompanied her gift of clairvoyance brought her fully and instantly awake. Stiff-jointed, but clear of mind, she rose from the straw and crept to the trapdoor. Night wind carried the scents of horses and man-sweat; yet the creatures who moved among the animals below were not as they should be. The priestess blinked blind eyes. As a maiden she had undergone training and a painful initiation to gain the enhanced perception of a clan priestess. Her altered mind sensed a wrongness about these horsemen who swaggered in the stableyard below.
Troubled, the clanswoman scratched her belly through a rent in the skins that clothed her. Slowly, muttering all the while, she made her way to the ladder and crept into the shadowed darkness of the stable. None noticed as she shuffled to the doorway by the grain bins.
Close at hand, the sense of wrongness became overpowering. Horses stamped and men cursed; the company had remounted, ready to resume their ride. But over the clank of weapons, stirrups, and mail, the priestess sensed a ringing overtone that bordered the edges of pain. Never in life had she known such a presence of evil. Her duty was plain. Trembling, the crone stepped into the yard to challenge.
Her voice rang girlishly clear. 'Behold! Trespassers enter Keithland. They ride as humans, yet they are shells, emptied of spirit and possessed by demons. True men, be not deceived. Know ye stand in the company of Kor's Accursed!'
'Fires!' Corley's first captain slammed his mount with his heels and jerked around to face her. 'Woman, as you value life, be silent.'
'Demon.' The priestess stabbed a bony finger in his direction. 'Death cannot change the truth!'
The captain gripped his sword hilt. 'Since when do the Kielmark's officers take orders from old women?' He smiled with icy mockery; and still smiling, drew steel and cut the blind priestess down.
She fell against the water trough with a coughing cry. Blood flooded hot over her hands. Yet purpose made her fight for strength. Sinking to her knees, she groped through the mud and the run-off from the spring. Her palms touched the sacred surface of the well-stone. Energy surged from the contact. Dying, the priestess melded with the mystery within and sent warning.
* * *
South, in the underground installation on the Isle of the Vaere, a monitor light flashed on the communications panel. Circuitry activated to receive an incoming signal that twisted across time and through space; the message originated from a dying priestess in Gaire's Main. Though the culture of the hilltribes was patterned after primitive ritual magic, the clairvoyance of their priestesses in fact disguised a network of Set-Nav's comlink; thus had the remotest wilds of Keithland been watched continually for intrusion, transmissions sent by means of talisman stones no demon yet thought to examine for technological artifacts.
Even as the clan priestess breathed her last, Set-Nav merged her fragmented warning with data in the memory banks. Numbers flashed through probability equations, and the monitors glittered amber with distress lights. Keithland's existing defences were critically inadequate to offset Shadowfane's latest offensive. Set-Nav had no means to sequence secondary alternatives. Jaric's Firemastery lay yet in jeopardy. Although he clung stubbornly to sanity, his strength ebbed with each passing day; even if he embraced Ivain's philosophy at once, his resilience had worn to the point where the paired Sathid might still overthrow his will. The Dreamweaver perhaps could save him. But Set-Nav sorted facts, and by extrapolation perceived impending danger to Taen.
Power surged to transmit the priestess's warning. Far to the north, a century and a quarter out of phase, Taen Dreamweaver started awake in her berth aboard Moonless.
Jostled against the lee boards by the rising toss of the sea, the girl lay in darkness, straining to catch a silvery jangle of bells. Yet she heard only the thud and hiss of waves against the hull, and wind thrumming through the rigging. No trace remained of Tamlin of the Vaere except the warning left echoing in her mind.
Taen shivered and sat up. Her cabin seemed suddenly ominous with threat. The darkness oppressed her without remedy. The lamp in its gimballed bracket was empty of oil, the reservoir dry since the evening before. With Moonless pitching uncomfortably to weather, the girl had stayed in rather than cross spray-drenched decks to find the steward.
Yet deep in her heart, Taen knew that weather was only an excuse; she had avoided the kindly old servant since leaving Gaire's Main. Her self-consciousness stemmed from the fact that she had yet to muster the nerve to make her peace with Moonless's captain. While crew and brigantine drove south under straining yards of canvas, Corley kept to the quarterdeck. Storms invariably made the captain moody and unreasonable about interruptions. But now the Dreamweaver had no choice. Tamlin's warning forced her to confront him without delay.
Taen slipped from her blankets into dank, chill air. More than cold raised gooseflesh on her skin as she tugged a linen shift over her head. Too hurried to fight the pitch and toss of the deck and dig out heavy clothing, she slipped the latch, then clawed her way against the eleme
nts to the quarterdeck.
Topside, the brigantine seemed frail as a sliver slammed through a black expanse of spindrift and sea. Wave crests foamed across the waist, carved into geysers by the ratlines; after each successive flooding, spray showered back in sheets between taut curves of canvas. In the puddled glow of the binnacle, two men laboured to hold the brigantine on course, lanternlight glazing their fingers orange as they strained against the drag of the double-spoked wheel. The nearer one worked with his hood thrown back. Through tangled chestnut hair, Taen recognized Moonless's captain. She called out and worked her way aft, over planking sleek with seawater.
Corley lifted his head. Startled to see the Dreamweaver on deck, he mistimed his pull. The wheel kicked under his hands. He lost a spoke, swore, and threw his weight against the helm as a headsail banged forward. Moonless heeled, overcanvassed and unforgiving under a murderous burden of wind. Two strong men could barely maintain her course.
Corley shouted to the officer on watch. 'Call the boatswain away from the pumps. He's needed on deck. And tell him to roust the second mate to replace him below.'
Somewhere in the darkness, a crewman answered. With less than a minute's delay, the boatswain arrived, panting, to relieve his captain of the wheel.
Corley stepped aside, a bulking, windblown shadow with water dripping silver from his beard. He lingered over the compass. Then, satisfied Moonless was secure on her heading, he turned and met the Dreamweaver with eyes that were bright and inquiring and alert as a predator's.
Killer's eyes, Taen thought; she shivered involuntarily.
Corley misinterpreted. 'You're chilled.' Swiftly he shed his cloak. Before the Dreamweaver could decline, his hands bundled her in salt-drenched wool that soaked her own garment to the skin. Yet she endured the damp rather than suffer the captain's touch again.